h e a v y is the c r o w n
by Aliathe
Summary: It turns out royalty has a lot more fratricide attempts, absurd parental obliviousness, and suspicious cultish behavior than I expected. Good thing I plan on getting out of here before 'heir apparent' becomes 'heir deceased'. (oc-insert!rasiel) (gender-neutral!oc) (no plot knowledge)
1. day one (night terror)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

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 _/ / Age: ? ? ?_

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The first thing I felt upon waking up at the light brush of something against my forehead, seriously sleepy and severely confused in a bed that didn't feel like the one I usually fell asleep in, was _fear for my life._

This was not my usual reaction to waking up - even to waking up in an unfamiliar bed - because a profession as a part-time live-in caregiver, part-time childcare consultant, and a part-time tutor to the wards of the wealthy was not exactly anyone's typical idea of a 'dangerous' occupation. Except, perhaps, the constant occupational hazard of being wrongly blamed by upset guardians for their charges growing up spoiled. (Personally, my sterling record had never been marred by accusations of the sort, but you heard all sorts of helicopter-parent horror stories when you mingled in the youth education circles.)

However, a _primal fear of death_ was, I believe, rather justified in this such scenario, due to the grinning child _stabbing_ down a _knife_ mere _inches_ away from my abruptly adrenaline-wide eyes.

All traces of sleepy confusion evaporated faster than the steam from a kettle on a sweltering Sunday morning. Their eyes were covered by the most _impractical_ haircut I had ever seen, but I could just about pick out enough details about their finely-embroidered old-fashioned nightclothes to determine they were probably as well-off as any of my employers.

If it weren't for the _f- freaking knife in their hands_ and the fact that I would've been entirely unable to forget any impression of such a distinct hairstyle, I could've easily come to the conclusion that I had, somehow, accidentally fallen asleep on the bed of my newest student, after a late night grading papers or carefully soothing sugar-high toddlers to sleep - both equally mentally fatiguing tasks.

(Self-censorship was a necessary marketing skill for any professional caregiver and/or tutor. No one, upper-class to filthy rich, was paying for their educator to dispense an education on cursing, no matter how inevitable it was that their kids would eventually pick it up somewhere else, or how trying their kids were on said educator's well-tested patience. Profanity, as anything forbidden did, positively _fascinated_ the young and innocent.)

The blade didn't glint. There wasn't enough light in the dark room for that. My night vision had strained enough on trying to analyze the quality of my _child murderer's_ pajamas in a desperate bid by my brain to remain calm under pressure - namely, by diverting away attention from my _imminent death_. But the blade did descend a few centimeters closer, and no amount of last-ditch distraction attempts by my faithful squishy mass of neurons could keep me from hysterically noting how little distance remained between my eyes and the tip of the lighter patch of darkness that was a metallic _knife_ of some sort.

Time, which I had subconsciously registered - since waking up to _a knife in my face_ \- as stretched out like the tug of a toddler on freshly boiled taffy, slowed even more, to the rough approximation of syrup's first droplet, dangling from the lip of the metaphorical bottle.

If I was frozen and unable to move, that was only partly from adrenaline's double-edged effect on my body. The other part, I figured, was entirely attributed to there not being enough physical - as opposed to perceived - time to dodge. Though, curiously enough, I could sure hear my poor heart pounding fast enough to set a real-time beat.

Brain, stop trying to distract me from _imminent death_ , please. I appreciate your efforts, I really do, but while distracting and supposedly logical tangents are great for keeping a serene expression in day-to-day interactions, they're kind of irritating in the _literal face of a knife about to spear into my fleshy eyeballs and possibly straight down to you, depending on how much muscle and how good of an aim a child with their eyes covered has!_

The blade descended another few millimeters, in the milliseconds I'd used up scolding what was essentially myself, in a lifelong habit of offbeat humor.

Well. Not lifelong anymore, pretty quick, pretty soon. Life-short?

I was about to get murdered (or at least horribly blinded and bled out) by a mysterious maniac who I didn't even know, and who, perhaps more concerning, was maybe less than ¼ my age at most. And I was about to die not knowing where I was or what I'd done to deserve it, on the back of a truly awful pun nobody but me would be able to not-appreciate, having lived a life learned lawfully and lovingly, but probably not having drank enough for my much-beleaguered nerves, since I'd only been of legal drinking age in America for few years and I responsibly never drank underage except for that one time at high school graduation, and _oh my agnostic god BRAIN you've done it AGAIN._

My pupils were probably pinpoints trying to focus on the knife tip now. If I blinked, my eyelashes might just touch the edge, just like if I dared make a noise now, it'd probably be uncontrollable panicky giggle-shrieking.

… _Fuck_ self-censorship and internal discipline. My cursing skills were likely rusty after swearing it off (no pun intended) post-graduation, but _dying_ was astonishingly fantastic motivation for me to brush them off and give 'em the workout of their non-lives, although I didn't recommend it as a first, or anything other than last, choice for anyone.

 _What the hell was going on was a fucking kid really about to kill me oh my fucking god what the fuck what the fuck what the fucking fuckity fucked up fuck oh fuck no hell no shit no damnit-_

 ** _I didn't want to die._**

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The second thing I felt, in a room not my own, confronted by a child not my own, about to be stabbed for reasons not my own, was fear for my own _sanity_.

Now, modern political correctness frowned sternly upon the casual use of 'crazy' as a descriptor. I respected this. But I was pretty sure that a _sane_ person didn't _hallucinate_ unnaturally _red_ fire that _burst from their eyes_ and _disintegrated a knife about to end their life._

(Fire had red _in_ it, sure, but it wasn't _completely_ red, and the outer edges of it certainly weren't darker in redness than the paler inner core. Also, fire _burned_ , and whatever I had just seen myself produce from my visual orifices did _not_ burn or melt the knife, it had outright _vanished_ it somehow. _Erased_ it. Judging by the flakes of _something_ I could barely glimpse falling from the hand of my _would-be murderer,_ 'disintegration' was the most fitting word I could currently dredge up for what 'It' had done to the knife.)

Therefore, some form of 'craziness', I strongly believed, was my right to claim. Reclaim? Was that the proper term in this context?

 _Brain!_ Good to see you're back in action, redirecting my thoughts to prevent outwards expression of internal hysteria. What would I do without you? _Probably have had this presumed psychotic break much earlier and snapped under the stress of keeping my nerves in socially functionable working order!_

My eyes were still on- on- on tentatively deemed 'Fire' with a capital 'F'.

In the reddish light the Fire exuded, I observed the visage of my would-be murderer. Pale, Caucasian, thin face and delicate features, eyes still covered by that ridiculously impractical (and thus thoroughly believable as a byproduct of wealth) hairstyle, child-sized crown (the way some people doted on their children, really… and then they thought it wasn't their fault their wards grew up spoiled?), short golden-blonde hair, sex indeterminable and younger than I'd thought, elaborate dated children's nightclothes with rather more ruffles than currently fashionable, mouth open on in a surprised 'o' of shock. Still crouched over me and probably staring just as hard as I was, though they seemed solely focused on my eyes, indicating either more familiarity or just more fascination in particular.

I rose to a sitting position - after confirming with a quick once-over that they weren't holding anymore _knives_ \- and gently but firmly pushed them back with a silk-sleeved hand to give me space, the other silk-sleeved hand absently brushing away the bangs that automatically fell in front of my eyes. I had to concentrate on my breathing for a few seconds to make sure it was steady, before I properly looked that them and offered a small, soothing smile, carefully making sure I kept back any hint of the hyperventilating and nervous but relieved laughter I wanted to express at the _absolutely absurd_ situation-

 _Wait what,_ my brain helpfully stopped me.

I glanced at my hands. Pale, Caucasian, thin fingers and delicate joints, covered by silk sleeves that looked identical to the sleeves on Would-be Murderer.

Far too calmly, I reached up, fumbled around my ears where they'd been brushed back, and dragged a lock of hair in front of my- (nope, not _burning_ ) my- my Fiery eyes. Golden-blonde and short when it wasn't supposed to be. Eye-covering bangs when I didn't _have_ bangs.

I looked back up at Would-be Murderer, who had settled back on their haunches and was curiously watching me examine what was Not My Body. Or so I assumed, since their eyes were still hidden.

Not My movements had shifted Not My position on the bed slightly, and something nudged Not Me in Not My hip. Numbly, I delved one hand under the heavy silken covers of Not My bed and unearthed a crown, unsurprisingly identical to Would-Be Murderer's.

I stared at it in my blanket-spooled lap, both pale hands clenched on its silver rim, the entire image tinted pinkish by the reddish light of Not My eyes.

I looked up at WbM.

I looked down.

I looked up, then down, then turned around the crown and looked back up again, desperately craving some sort of refuting proof that the dawning conclusion in my mind (if it even was my mind and not Not My mind, although that didn't quite make sense to me right now) was wrong.

WbM returned my previous _child-please-calm-down-for-your-teacher-now©_ smile with a twisted, snide, sneering mockery of it.

"Ushishishi," they snickered - sniggered? _Was_ that a laugh? What kind of a laugh was _that?_ I mean, I tried not to judge the habits of small children but that was a seriously worrying mark against normal vocal development- voice high with what I normally thought of as the charming pitch of prepubescent children, but on them was more of a chilling, jarringly unexpected juxtaposition of age and clear malicious intent. "What's wrong, _brother~?_ I'm surprised you haven't tried to tackle me yet. Is that _my_ win then? Fancy fire eyes and that trick with the knife might have stopped that try, but that was just revenge for the _worms_ last week, Siel."

From outside a patch of dimly-lit wall that I vaguely recognized must be a door, came rapid footsteps and knocking, followed by a gruff, official-sounding announcement. "Prince Rasiel? Prince Rasiel! Their Royal Highnesses are entering your bedchamber."

The wall-door creaked open. I winced and squinted against the sudden bright light, only making out the tall pair of silhouettes in the doorway, flanked by a few other silhouettes cut off from view by the doorframe. Not My hands were still clenched on the crown, Not My shoulders tensed and trembling; I was too drenched in blank, numb horror to order Not My muscles to move them, and, indeed, to do anything else but turn my unblinking, watering stare onto the newcomers.

"My dear _angel~!_ And my adorable little demon! How _joyous_ an occasion~! We felt you awaken the fire of our bloodline, and at such a _young_ age, too~! All the more proof you're the rightful heir our kingdom needs~!" a womanly voice sang out with genuinely ecstatic happiness.

"Rightly spoken, my love, rightly spoken. What a lovely brotherly bonding activity, witnessing the royal right being activated firsthand. Aren't you so happy for your brother, Belphegor?" a deeper and more sedated, but no less sincerely warm voice chimed in.

A few inches away, WbM - Belphegor? Odd name for a child - shifted, shoulders stiffening, and mean smile dripping into a curt frown.

"Yes," he (presumably) snapped out sarcastically.

The queen and king _(what)_ clapped cheerfully and approached the bed, apparently seeing nothing wrong at all with that answer.

I was suddenly acutely aware that just because I didn't _see_ another knife didn't mean he didn't _have_ another knife, and if these were the sort of parents that believed Belphegor and 'Rasiel' had a good sibling relationship, they were also likely the sort of parents who would excuse blatant attempted stabbing as something else entirely.

"Angel? Oh, my sweet little angel, are you quite alright? You haven't spoken a peep! The bloodline's first awakening can be a rather rough one, can you hear me?" the queen _(what)_ bent down over Me and grasped My face tenderly with cold pale hands, cooing lovingly.

"Yes, yes, can you hear your dear mother? Oh, no, Rasiel? Razzy? Rasiel my boy, are you quite alright, answer your mother now, that's a good boy," the king _(what)_ gamely attempted to join in on the prompting.

I could barely glimpse, out of the side of My vision, Belphegor scowling and crossing his arms. He caught My glance and bared his teeth nastily, before childishly sticking his tongue out (like the child he was, I reminded Myself).

The Queen shook me gently.

"Rasiel?"

I gazed deeply into her ruby-red eyes framed by golden-blonde curls, let out that nervous giggle I'd been holding back, blinked once and saw that unnatural redness no longer tinted My vision, and then slumped forward into a dead faint.

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 _/ / Age: ? ? ?_

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(I figured out pretty soon in the days to come that this first experience in my life as 'Rasiel' - prominently featuring both fear for my life and fear for my sanity - was a remarkably accurate indicator of what was to regularly come next in my ridiculously traumatic and traumatically ridiculous second life. It came with being the only sibling to a fratricidal prince with way more issues than I was qualified as a professional caregiver, tutor, and all-around fancied-up babysitter to handle.

I suppose you're my 'conscience' that I narrate to, or maybe my 'psyche', since I've already got a 'brain' in charge of sending me off on tangents to preserve my frayed sense of calm.

You could call me 'Siel', like Belphegor sometimes does, from the technically correct pronunciation of the misspelled 'Rasiel'. Or even 'Razzy' like my new parents sometimes do, from the technically correct pronunciation of the originally spelled 'Raziel'.

Please don't call me 'angel' though. I get enough of that from the castle staff - after I managed to get them used to the new 'me', anyway - and it's kind of unsettling, despite how admittedly grounded it is when compared to the 'demon child' that Belphegor loves to portray around the servants.

I'd prefer if you called me 'Si', though, like I quickly worked on convincing Belphegor to call me instead, in hopes of further differentiating 'Siel' from my 'Rasiel' enough that he'd lay off or at least lessen the assassination attempts. Some amateur psychology, I've learned, is often surprisingly applicable to childcare, and even more surprisingly applicable to adult-guidance.

… Well, he calls me that when he's in a better mood, at least, so, goal half-succeeded?

Still, the thought of a single-letter moniker has always been attractive to me, the person who grew up on a diet of wallflower presences and escapist fantasy books before I learned to project the kind of warmth I always wanted to receive from others. It makes me feel… special, I guess, and something straight out of fiction.

Hah. As if being mysteriously transmigrated into the 4-year-old body of a crown prince with unexplained 'bloodline fire' powers and a severely unhealthy family dynamic, with varyingly blurred memories of a past life, isn't straight out of fiction _enough._

Brain, stop it.

So… 'Si' is probably how Belphegor thinks of me, and I've given up on correcting Rasiel's parents away from their persistence on 'angel/demon' nicknames, despite the worryingly entrenched psychological insecurities this can cause in siblings, especially those close in age or appearance.

But you, my conscience, my critic of my conscious narrative…

You can just call me 'C'.

Pleased to meet you, superimposed figment of my imagination.

[Seriously, brain, not helping right now.])

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 ** _And thus begin the adventures of RaCel, constantly stressed and rather high-strung people-pleaser ISFJ with no knowledge of KHR!. At all. (Using 'the Nurturer' interpretation.)_**

 ** _What do you think so far? Is my foray into Asian translated novels (light or otherwise) that apparent? Reincarnation/Transmigration is a popular genre all by itself._**

 ** _I know I always say this, but I have a good feeling about this story. I'm also on summer break, and so have more time to work on it. Plus, I've probably done the most planning on a story on this than I have for anything else (although if you've read my past works, you know there's a reason most of them are one-shots or dead!fics). Butterflies will be ahead, as will lore, because I finally have a canon-plausible reasoning for why Belphegor's nationality can't be revealed to the UN, and how a kingdom with an active monarchy can exist in modern day._**

 ** _My stash: 2 more chapters and 6k more words, 5 more chapter outlines, and a definite story progression for the 'Kingdom' arc._**

 ** _._**

 ** _[Profile: Chapter One_**

 ** _Name: Rasiel [Classified]; …?_**

 ** _Nationality: Kingdom of [Classified]; …?_**

 ** _Titles: Prince; Heir Apparent; Crown Prince; …?_**

 ** _Nickname(s): Siel, Angel Child, Razzy_**

 ** _Age: ? ? ?; …?_**

 ** _Notes: - Awakened the 'fire of the royal bloodline' earlier than expected._**

 ** _\- …?]_**

 ** _._**

 ** _Please F &F, and review with what you'd like to see added onto the [Profile], which will evolve over chapters, or what you'd like to see in the story, or questions you'd like answered. They may be answered in the next author's note. HitC appreciates the support!_**

 _[Next Chapter Preview:]_

 _Eye for an eye, and all that. Like Ghandi said._

 _I didn't know about the world, but I'd personally come startlingly close to becoming blind last night, and was not interested in inviting a repeat performance._


	2. day one (wake up)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

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/ / _Age: ? ? ?_

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The next time I woke up in an unfamiliar bed went a lot smoother. For one, there was no attempt on my life, which I had always considered a plus, but hadn't sincerely grasped the gravity of until I had actually woken up to an attempt on my life. You know what they say about not cherishing something until it's gone and all that, but I rather thought that you most fervently cherished something when you still had it, but was aware of how close it'd come to being gone.

That is to say, 'life'. 'Consciousness', at least. 'Awareness'?

I admitted to myself that I'd probably be quite happier to be a hypothetical self-aware 'ghost' of some sort than to be a hypothetical (but nearly, as of last night, _literal_ ) corpse.

… Ah, how refreshing it was to enjoy a mental tangent again without threat of death or blue-screened shock muffling everything else.

… Ah. Yes. Threat of death and blue-screened shock muffling everything else.

From where I'd languidly reached up to stretch and yawn, feeling the pleasant sensation of spine bones cracking down my back, I slumped down onto the bedsheets of what was rapidly becoming the more and more familiar bed. Golden-blonde locks fanned out beside my head.

A restful night had done much to restore my logical processing skills. It was much easier to think things through, come to conclusions, and accept those conclusions while laying in a soft, luxurious bed, absently watching the warmth of early dawn rays shine through the folds of the heavy velvet curtains.

Sunlight glinted off the rim of a silver crown. Child-sized. Someone had helpfully placed it on the bedside table to my left.

I closed my eyes and let out a deep sigh.

Yes. Okay. Sure. 'My left.' 'My crown.'

Why not.

Like I said, or, rather, thought: a restful night had done much to ease the cogs and gears of my mind, greasing them up from their former denial-rusted form.

In truth, I'd already figured out the most logical conclusion to my current situation last night. I just hadn't wanted to believe it. Upon further reflection, this was _my_ wrong, for being too inflexible to strange and, some might say, 'miraculous' happenings. I had grown up agnostic all my life, and wasn't inclined to start picking decisive sides on the divinity debate just yet, but I had to admit that having my consciousness (I shied away from throwing around words like 'soul' so soon) transferred from a college graduate - making a fair living as a childcare consultant, caregiver, and tutor to the charges of those with more cash than time - to what by all means seemed to be the young heir apparent to a mysterious kingdom, was a very good point in favor of believing that there were _some_ higher (or lower) power(s) out there.

On the matter of the supernatural debate, I was a little more ready to start inching towards the side of the 'believers', on the basis that a., I had just performed _some_ feat of locally recognized ability (' _fire of the royal bloodline,'_ I recalled) I had not been able to perform before as a plain twenty-something human, and b., it was rather more readily acceptable to my sensibilities that those in a different world (or maybe a different universe? Dimension?) could have supernatural powers.

Unless this was actually a hallucination like I'd earlier believed, brought on by a psychotic break from reality. It would explain the gaps and vagueness of some of my previous life's memories (such as my _name_ and _family_ , most frustratingly). And if this was a delusion, or even a coma fever dream, then, well, naturally the inhabitants of my delusion would want to convince me I belong there, wouldn't they?

… But nobody likes to think they're actually insane. Me included. After an uneasy moment dwelling soberly on that dark thought, and after biting the inside of my elbow to elicit the supposed 'pain reaction' impossible in dreams (though I wasn't sure how that worked for hallucinations, delusions, and theoretical comas), I decided to move on, and take it on faith and instinct that I was correct in believing my theory of 'transmigration' or perhaps 'reincarnation' over my, um, _other_ theory of 'the bottled-up stress and repressed anxiety finally getting to be too much.'

Not that I particularly trusted my own instinct or had much faith in myself, but if the options were to live with even more anxiety and stress from the constant self-awareness of the fragility of one's own frail sanity, or to live with the assurance that, yes, one _could_ trust one's own senses and mind, I would rather take the latter, thank you.

Also, I'd hope that if I _was_ living in a delusion, I'd have chosen a more pleasant one than the one involving a fratricidal prince, royal parents _themselves_ delusional as to the mental health of their children and obliviously exacerbating relationship tensions by furthering an inferiority complex in the younger sibling, and the responsibility of being royalty at all. I… wasn't quite sure what responsibilities royalty _had_ , especially on another world where magic-esque 'bloodline fire' was apparently a characteristic of royal right, and presumably they had a more active role in ruling their kingdom, but I supposed I was prepared to learn. And if I really couldn't bear it…

I'm sorry, Rasiel's family, but I'm not the Rasiel you know, and I have no obligations to you beyond, well, the usual obligations of human decency and kindness.

I'd feel guilty about it, but in that case, I supposed I was prepared to learn how to escape the heirship, and royal life entirely. It would certainly seem to cheer up Belphegor a little.

Relaxing a bit, and feeling better for have settled some basic decisions about the reality I accepted I was in now, I rolled over to face the crown. The light really did play off nicely on the silver whorls and curlicues, even if I still thought it was rather ostentatious to entrust to a child.

… H- How old was the 'I' that I had accepted as 'Myself', anyway?

… Let's go over what I know from yesterday night. (Or maybe very early this morning.)

This body was Rasiel. I- I was Rasiel. My brother was Belphegor. Inferring from what Rasiel's parents- _my_ parents, now, had said, 'Belphegor' was the younger sibling, and a prince. My name sounded like something out of Christianity… the whole '-iel' thing lead me to believe so, anyway, and R- my mother's nickname of 'angel' supported it in context. And 'Belphegor', therefore, was likely to be something associated with demons, seeing as she'd also called him her 'little demon'.

Back up, brain. Names were interesting to think about, and arguably a lot more useful than most of the distractions you come up with, but I was already in a clear-headed state of calm. Distractions were just that, at this point.

So, prince. Princes. I… was a prince now. … I'd stick to 'heir', if I didn't suspect that that'd only worsen Belphegor's burgeoning inferiority complex in regards to his- his brother.

I couldn't be his brother, but just by what he'd let slip about getting me back for 'those worms', I decided I could and _would_ strive to be a better sibling to him. Partly, admittedly, to decrease my risk of mortality when growing up in the castle next to him for the forseeable future, but mostly because… that was just being decent, wasn't it? You didn't need a _reason_ to do good things for other people - you did them because they _were_ good. Or so I'd tried quite hard to instill into all my charges, though it was always difficult to know what kind of environment old students were left in to soak after my contracts ended.

Eye for an eye, and all that. Like Ghandi said.

I didn't know about the world, but I'd personally come startlingly close to becoming blind last night, and was not interested in inviting a repeat performance.

Okay, well, that's one future goal set, then. 1. 'Be a better sibling to Belphegor.'

2., I thought, should be, 'Learn about my situation.' Rasiel's memories, unfortunately, had not come with the package deal of his body and his 'bloodline fire'. … Maybe it was for the best, considering his past treatment of his younger brother, but still.

I took a moment to bite my lower lip in guilt-washed mourning for this child I'd never known but whose life I'd taken nevertheless. Not by choice, but I had still _taken_ it, hadn't I? I felt uncomfortably like a stranger in my skin right then. Because I was, I really, truly was.

But like it or not, it _was_ my skin now, and although mourning was right and proper, if we all lived in the past there'd be no future. I took another second to mutter silent apologies in the direction of Rasiel, wherever he was now, and then moved on, just like I'd moved on from my _other_ theory. I'd started tutoring young, and then progressed to caregiving, but it never failed to elicit a sort of wistfulness in me when I saw past charges matured. Life went on, whether you wanted it to or not.

Maybe I did want a distraction then. I busied myself with analyzation again.

What else, what else? 'Bloodline'. 'Fire of our bloodline'. That… Fire last night was likely said 'bloodline' and proof of 'royal right'. The way the queen had said it, it somehow made Rasiel's claim to kingship more… legitimate. It was a good thing, presumably, a 'joyous' thing, and it had come earlier than either parent expected. The first activation was also supposedly the 'roughest' one.

This was sounding more and more like flat-out magic, but I tried not to judge too fast. It was possible I'd just read too many fantasy books. Then again, another world. Flat-out magic was entirely feasible for an explanation.

Either way, I wasn't getting any more information by lazing around in bed all day, no matter how comfortable a bed it was. That was pretty much all I could conclude from the short, one-sided conversation I remembered, anyway. Doting, smothering parents who aren't around enough or are too blinded by their own desires to see how harmful they are to their children. A younger brother of indeterminable age, probably around 5, who resented his higher-ranked and more blatantly favored sibling, and may or may not desire the attention and recognition of his parents instead. And me, the older sibling of indeterminable age, the heir apparent to a kingdom, the crown prince, who was likely cruel to their younger brother, only feeding the cycle of maliciousness by feeding his desire for 'revenge'.

Well. Not the _worst_ family dynamic I've interacted with, contracted into, or heard of. And it was always easier for a member of the dynamic to alter it with sufficient motivation, rather than rely on secondhand motivation and advice from a consulted 'outsider.'

3\. 'Improve overall family dynamic.'

Heartened by a clearer set of objectives, I sat up, pushed back the covers, and swung my legs around the left side of my canopy bed. It was fascinating how- how _energetic_ and _limber_ I felt, and also how easily manipulating an entirely new body came to me. So these were the advantages of the youthful, huh? I smiled down at my lap, amused at the thought of twenty-somethings being already 'old', both hands bracing me on either side as I idly kicked my legs to get a sense of their strength.

Then I looked up, and flinched badly. Abruptly jolting backwards and scrambling to jerk up my bedsheets as a reflexive flimsy shield, I almost fell off the bed due to my haste.

A second passed, before I quickly untensed and dropped my shoulders, allowing myself, in the absence of any witnesses, a nervous huff of self-deprecating humor.

Silly. _Ridiculous_. Oh, _me_. How _old_ was I mentally again?

I didn't _know_ , but that was _still_ no justification for having _literally_ been scared of my own reflection.

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 ** _Logic! Is the Asian translated novels' influence apparent yet? More of Japanese reincarnations than Chinese transmigrations; Chinese ones tend to focus more on revenge. And no, Rasiel will not resurface in the future._**

 _ **Character Note: C considers themselves gender-neutral (specifically agender), with few hang-ups about gender-exclusive dress, but they also don't actively correct the perceptions of those around them, unless they feel close enough to care about misgendering. Conflict-avoidant and very polite, they personally do not mind being misgendered, and will go with the flow or at times perpetrate a misconception if it makes things easier. This may come up in the future, but as most chapters will be from C's first-person point of view, and the default titles for 'inheritor' and 'ruler' are assumed 'heir' and 'king', not to mention pre-C Rasiel being recognized as 'prince' and 'brother', this is just important to remember that C does not identify as male, even when they use terms like 'fratricidal' in reference to themselves, and that this is not representative of the gender-neutral or gender-queer community as a whole.**_

 ** _Opinions on the new cover? I'm testing out my first art tablet, and hope to produce an original cover for each of the arcs involving serious timeskips/appearance changes. 'Day One' is just a mini-arc, but it spans 6 chapters by itself. The original arc cover (and my new Deviantart account) can be found under 'Aliathian'._**

 _ **.**_

 _ **[Profile: Chapter Two**_

 _ **Name: Rasiel [Classified]; …?**_

 _ **Nationality: Kingdom of [Classified]; …?**_

 _ **Titles: Prince; Heir Apparent; Crown Prince; …?**_

 _ **Nickname(s): Siel, Angel Child, Razzy**_

 _ **Age: ? ? ?; …?**_

 _ **Gender: AMAB Gender-neutral; Agender**_

 ** _Likes: Safety; Comfortable Beds; ...?_**

 ** _Dislikes: Impracticality; Spoiling Children; ...?_**

 _ **Notes: - Awakened the 'fire of the royal bloodline' earlier than expected.**_

 _ **\- Dead ringer for Belphegor.**_

 _ **\- Default expression is calm and attentive.**_

 _ **\- …?]**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **Please F &F, and review with what you'd like to see added onto the [Profile], which will evolve over chapters, or what you'd like to see in the story, or questions you'd like answered. They may be answered in the next author's note. HitC appreciates the support!**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _{"W- What kind of monster child was the 'I' of before like!?"} I sincerely wanted to plead the trembling maids._


	3. day one (get dressed)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

.

.

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/ / _Age: ? ? ?_

.

Chancing another glance at the glass, I winced but managed to withhold a flinch.

Belphegor - or, as I still automatically thought of him as despite my sincere earlier vow to treat him better, my _would-be murderer_ \- stared back at me from the mirror, crownless and messy-haired, and looking rather like he was cowering behind raised covers.

O- _kay_ , so either the age difference was closer than I'd thought and Rasiel's parents had a penchant for dressing us up identically, or we were identical twins… and Rasiel's parents had a penchant for dressing us up identically.

Way to _further_ further that inferiority complex by implying that physical identicality meant that Rasiel must somehow just be naturally superior in some way to justify the favoritism.

I huffed out another short puff of uneasy laughter, and sheepishly dropped the sheets, finally sitting up straight and carefully smoothing down the rumpled blankets behind me. It was hard for me to imagine the maniacally grinning, surprised 'o'-ing, curiously straight-lipped, despisingly sneering, sullenly frowning, resentfully scowling, and annoyedly teeth-baring Belphegor _ever_ looking like he _cowered_.

Curious myself now, I cautiously hopped off the bed, dropping bare-footed and sinking into inches of fantastically sumptuous, opulent furred carpeting. Approaching the floor-length, gold-gilded and ruby-encrusted mirror with my head tilted slightly yielded nothing but the very convincing image of Belphegor walking up to me. It wasn't until I practically rested my ear on my shoulder that the ridiculously impractical hairstyle's eye-covering bangs finally answered to gravity's siren call and parted enough to reveal said covered eyes.

Irises as red as those embedded rubies widened, framed softly all around by golden-blonde eyelashes.

It made sense, I considered. Rasiel's mother last night had had ruby-red eyes, I remember. 'Ruby' was such a cliche descriptor, as was any gemstone really, but here it fit perfectly. Our eyes were ruby-red. They were cardinal-red. They were also, variantly, robin-red, scarlet, crimson, vermillion, rose-red, garnet-red, brick-red, blood-red, claret-red, wine-red, and _flame- and fire-red,_ depending on how you angled your neck to catch the light just _so_.

… In a fit of vanity, I lost self-control and indulged in probably three or four straight minutes of eye-admiring, turning this way and that in front of the mirror. I was… not ashamed, exactly, because what was acceptable for a child was entirely different from what was acceptable for an adult, but I recognized and admitted that if I let my standards for myself slip using that justification, that was a dangerously slippery slope to be starting off a wholly different, new life with.

On the upside, if I lifted my bangs away I looked distinct enough from Belphegor that I almost _certainly_ would not flinch at reflections and imagine knifetips plunging down on me in the dark as I lay paralyzed and helpless!

This was an odd thing to be so cheerful about, but the world can always use more happiness in it, and I was _very_ close to breaking self-control again and _humming_ a jaunty tune as I went to search for some pins or clips or a hairband.

… Until I realized after several minutes of fruitless and increasingly frantic searching that I couldn't find any in my room. Rasiel's room. Of course there wouldn't be; why would _Rasiel_ need one?

Regretfully, I swept my gaze around the room once more. I could probably tear off a strip of fabric from somewhere if I used an edge from the crown, and I could probably scavenge a ribbon from one of the outfits in the wardrobe (all as dated and generically 'Western' as my pajamas; I easily spotted a sailor-boy uniform with a blue tied ribbon-bow at the neck), but I didn't need to. It would be a shame to start off the first day (the first night didn't count) of a brand new life with personal property destruction - even if I still was hesitant on whether or not I really _wanted_ this new life and the personal property coming with it - when Rasiel had perfectly serviceable _help_ to, well, help him.

I'd _been_ one of those _help_ before. The staff _always_ knew far more than the employers expected. I could get something for my hair and something for my brain at the same time: two birds, one stone!

.

.

.

You couldn't really _ask for_ 'bobby pins and information about the person I'm going to have to be now,' but I was certainly _thinking_ it when I fumbled around for the doorknob, pushed it open, and waved at the nearest two maids, just rounding the castle-stone corner.

"I'd appreciate some help with my room and- _appearance_ ," I tried to request politely, before immediately cringing at a., Belphegor's voice coming out of my throat, b., how haughty I sounded with a child's pitch, c., a worry that I'd sounded far too eloquent for a however-old-Rasiel-was, and d., the mixture of surprised shock and wary fear that overtook the maids' faces as they reluctantly obeyed the implicit order.

C. was dispelled with the memory of Belphegor's own eloquence, so presumably the siblings were roughly equal for intelligence. And D.'s results just helped my attempted resolution of A. and B. Backing into my room again after flickering my gaze from the maids to the corridor's only visible guard to the gratuitous fluffiness of my rich red carpeting, I occupied the short time until the maids' arrival to cough under my breath and test out a few modulations on my tone. Lower, controlled, softer, gentler, warmer…

The reluctance of the maids proved to be in my favor, as I got both a suggestion of how Rasiel had treated them, and also time to practice fixing my voice into something less 'Rasiel'. The ease (and possibly fatality rate) of my future childhood depended on me making enough of a distinction between Rasiel and Rasi- _me_ -l to smoothen the family dynamic, but not enough of a distinction for anyone to suspect that I'd entirely replaced him. Nobody would find anything using any scientific test they could try, since I _was_ him in body, but if this _was_ a magic-based or medieval (though the sailor-boy uniform made me doubt this) society, then being accused of possession was unsettlingly close to the truth. The negative connotations of being a 'skinwalker' of any kind were not something I wanted to live an entire other life dealing with.

I'd already decided to pass off any seriously 'unusual' personality or physicality changes as a sudden twist in attitude due to 'awakening the bloodline', if anyone asked. If this wasn't an actual side-effect of the 'awakening', I'd already decided to insist on it anyway, using my image as a child to imply that said persistence on my part in believing such was simply a shallow cover for my own decision to remake my identity after being confronted with the responsibility of what 'awakening the bloodline' _meant_ for a heir apparent.

It was basically true, after all.

And if they didn't ask, I was fully prepared to go ahead and let them draw their own conclusions, conveniently both saving me the trouble of a convincing explanation, and also likely pleasing the conclusion-drawer with their own cleverness at having solved the mystery themself.

.

.

.

Less than five minutes later, I was busily passing off my hairstyle change as a sudden twist in attitude due to 'awakening the bloodline'.

The maids, after lining up in front of the bed I was perched on and shooting synchronous uneasy looks at first the closed door then each other, had listened carefully to my request for something to keep my bangs out of my eyes.

"I can brush them behind my ears, but they're not long enough to stay that way if I move around." I demonstrated this with a gesture at my bangs, and then brushing back a stray lock of hair after it fell forwards due to the force of my head tilt. "Hair clips or bobby pins are equally fine, I just want to be able to see my eyes. A headband is fine, too."

The taller maid to my right stepped up after another synchronous uneasy look.

"P- Prince Rasiel-"

"I'm fine with just 'Rasiel'," I volunteered with a bright smile. Good relationships with the castle staff were definitely to be cultivated.

Both of them flinched, eyes wide.

{"W- What kind of monster child was the 'I' of before like!?"} I sincerely wanted to plead the trembling maids.

Smile faltering, but, knowing not to push too far, I quickly amended, "O- Or you can just stick to what you feel most comfortable with, that's fine, fine."

Maybe that was a little _too_ Rasi-me-l.

She recovered and bravely pressed on, "Prince Rasiel, are you… sure you want your eyes to be seen?"

My certainty was punctuated with a firm nod.

The shorter maid to my left hesitated before tacking on in a whispery warble, "But isn't it royal tradition to keep children's eyes hidden until they mature…? Doesn't direct light, er, hurt them? Uh, um, hurt _you?_ "

Quick thinking and _way_ too much practice cajoling children into believing the words of a book kicked in.

"Yes, but I've realized that, now that I've already awoken the royal bloodline, I shouldn't act like a careless brat with no head for consequences anymore, and showing my eyes is a symbol of my decision to act more mature," I bluffed instantly. "Of course, I'm also going to request a pair of sunglasses for times when I need to go outside, but I'll be spending the next few weeks studying up on my future responsibilities. And I'll also be striving to reconnect with the castle staff and make amends for my past- um, behavior."

I waited a beat, but they just stared at me, still wide-eyed.

I coughed sheepishly. "Uh, that is, I am really sorry for what I did to make you so afraid to set foot in my room with my permission," I stated outright with an apologetic smile, while also subtly fishing for what Rasiel _had_ done to inspire such wary unease.

Another beat.

In a dazed-sounding voice, the shorter maid quavered with weak and unconvincing laughter, "I- It's quite alright, Prince Rasiel. W- What's a few thrown knives here and there, heheh."

 _Knives!?_

Looks like Rasiel had more in common with Belphegor than I thought.

… I wondered absently if reflexes carried over…? I certainly felt at ease enough in instinctively moving this body. But no, that was probably too much to ask for.

"... Sunglasses?" the taller maid chose to cautiously change topic, clearly uncomfortable.

I could almost sigh, but restrained it in case it undid any of my tentative progress with mending the frayed relations. I'd expected, to some degree, the doubt and skepticism. It was just… disheartening, to find out exactly how much doubt and skepticism there was. Still, it'd been overly optimistic of me to even think of the chance of people with an evidently bad history with Rasiel to immediately overcome their trained distrust on the basis of a few words from a child who had shown no prior signs at all of changing their ways.

… I still hadn't figured out how old I was.

"That is to say, coverings for my eyes. A- A sunhat, maybe. I'd burn pretty easily with this skin. Maybe I should ask- Mother for a custom on my next birthday. Which is…?" I trailed off meaningfully, feeling a little guilt for so quickly and hypocritically turning around to take advantage of their fear to drag out answers whose obviousness wouldn't be openly questioned.

"… The lesser half of a year from now, Prince Rasiel," the taller maid obliged.

"Right! Right, yes, of course. Woke up a little confused there for a moment, had a really nice dream about a birthday party! And that's my…"

"… _Fifth_ birthday party, Prince Rasiel?" the shorter maid completed with a questioning lilt.

 _Fifth?_ I was only _four?_ I chose to believe Belphegor was indeed my twin, then, because the only other option was to be afraid of an at-most _3-year-old_ as my _would-be murderer_.

I beamed at them with honest gratitude. They froze again.

"Yes, thank you very much! You've been a great help. … About those pins?"

The taller maid, who kept her hair up in a prim bun, quickly offered me four of her extra bobby pins that she kept on her stiff starched sleeve. I politely refused their help actually combing and pinning my hair, as well as their help washing up for breakfast. (I'd already found the doorway to my private bathroom earlier when searching the bedroom, and had deemed it curiously modern in comparison to the rest of the room, which is to say modern enough that I'd been privately surprised by the maids' ignorance about 'sunglasses.')

Their help in cleaning up the remnants of my whirlwind search was accepted, however, as was their help in finding my 'usual' wear: a black shirt and black slacks, finished off by white socks and black leather shoes - the kind that everyone wore before sneakers. I didn't mind, and I found a dusty gray neckerchief in the bottom of one of the drawers, but I made a mental note to request some more turtlenecks or scarves, as well as a few more sedate colors.

4\. 'Slowly convert Rasiel's fashion sense to my own in a way that seems natural and unsuspicious.'

I also asked for directions to the breakfast hall, glad that they only exchanged looks once more - this time, less readable - before complying without query or comment. After washing up, dressing, and pinning back my bangs, I practiced variants on Rasiel's smile in the bathroom mirror until I figured out how to (hopefully) smile nicely and sincerely without scaring the people used to his (and Belphegor's) rather less nice (but who knows how sincere) smiles.

The key, I figured, was to show no teeth and keep it small. Rasiel was gifted with a disgustingly adorable dimple on his right cheek, in perfect symmetry with the crescent birthmark I'd discovered to the left of my stomach. Expressive eyes probably helped.

I wondered idly if, under those ridiculously impractical bangs, Belphegor had a dimple on his left.

I firmly closed down that train of thought. I may have committed to improving our relationship from 'fratricidal' to an optimistic 'friendly', or at least a probably more reasonable 'neutral', but that didn't mean that his maniacal grin wasn't going to give me reflexive chills for the indefinite future.

With one last straighten of my neckerchief, and a firm, supportive nod to myself, I carefully stepped down from Rasiel's bathroom footstool, and left the bedroom. As I walked down the halls, doing my best to give a small, polite smile to everyone I passed and ignore their double-takes, I nervously went over my List in my mind.

1\. 'Be a better sibling to Belphegor.'

2\. 'Learn about my situation.'

3\. 'Improve overall family dynamic.'

4\. 'Slowly convert Rasiel's fashion sense to my own in a way that seems natural and unsuspicious.'

Right. Easy enough to say, time to do.

.

.

.

I entered the dining hall, and was immediately blasted with Rasiel's parents' beaming smiles, and Belphegor's sullen pout.

" _Good morning~!_ " the queen declared in that sing-song way I'd noticed Belphegor mimic occasionally. "Is that a new _scarf~?_ How _lovely~!_ "

"Good morning," the king greeted leisurely. "I see you've done something with your hair, heir. Hah, get it? Hair? Heir?"

"About _time_ you showed up, Siel. Of _course,_ _you_ would sleep in when you _know_ we have to 'wait for the _heir_ to arrive' before we can eat," my _would-be murderer_ and priority subject for lessening hostility complained snidely. "And what'd you do to your _eyes?_ "

Yes, it's too late to back out, my brain graciously returned from its sabbatical to inform me.

"Good morning! Sorry for my tardiness, I- lost track of time." I started heading towards the seat laid out for me, across from Belphegor, and mentally braced myself for the meal ahead.

I hoped there'd be fruit.

* * *

 ** _ **#**_**

 _ **#**_

 ** _#_**

 ** _The mystery of the anachronistic castle. To be continued, although it isn't RaCel's topmost concern just yet._**

 _ **In other news, RaCel finally finds out how old they are! After fumbling their way through social interaction, that is. They may like people and want to have people like them back, but that doesn't mean it doesn't still tire them out projecting what they will make people like them.**_

 _ **My stash: 2 more chapters and ~5k words pre-written.**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **[Profile: Chapter Three**_

 _ **Name: Rasiel [Classified]; …?**_

 _ **Nationality: Kingdom of [Classified]; …?**_

 _ **Titles: Prince; Heir Apparent; Crown Prince; …?**_

 _ **Nickname(s): Siel, Angel Child, Razzy**_

 _ **Age: 4**_ ½

 _ **Gender: AMAB Gender-neutral; Agender**_

 _ **Likes: Safety; Comfortable Beds; Neck-covers; Fruit; ...?**_

 _ **Dislikes: Impracticality; Spoiling Children; Outright Lying; ...?**_

 _ **Notes: - Awakened the 'fire of the royal bloodline' earlier than expected.**_

 _ **\- Dead ringer for Belphegor.**_

 _ **\- Default expression is calm and attentive. Has to consciously change expression.**_

 _ **\- Scares the maids (+ staff).**_

 _ **\- …?]**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **Please F &F, and review with what you'd like to see added onto the [Profile], which will evolve over chapters, or what you'd like to see in the story, or questions you'd like answered. They may be answered in the next author's note. HitC appreciates the support!**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _Also, I was hungry. Near-death experiences (and possible activation of magical bloodline powers), I believed, tended to do that. It was likely the adrenaline burning up calories. Or the hysterical throat-choking nerve-freezing stomach-curdling horrific fear._

… _Was that how adrenaline worked? I didn't teach that part of biology, usually._


	4. day one (break fast)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

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/ / _Age: 4_

.

Breakfast at the castle was, I assumed, a rather informal thing. Vague memory of some hazy history documentary gave me the unverified but nagging impression that formal events had the king and queen seated at the heads of the table, opposite and almost comically distant from each other.

Here, in the brightly sunlit dining hall, with the large arched glass windows practically glowing with illumination, the king and queen were seated quite snugly at the end of the table closest to the door. It was still the largest table, but the imposing, throne-esque chairs at the ends were left empty. Instead, to my right was the queen and then Belphegor, and to my left was the king and then the laid-out seat presumably Rasiel's, if you considered 'me' to be oriented as though I were sitting in the empty end chair-throne.

It was a lovely family picture, as long as I focused solely on the smiling and gaily laughing twenty-something couple, and not the bored child kicking his legs and stabbing his fried eggs with a little too much force for comfort.

(And that brought it's own uncomfortable thought: before-me was old enough to be Rasiel's parent. I took small solace in the fact that before-me was most likely still younger than Rasiel's actual parents, if only by a few years.)

I walked up to what was now my seat, internally marveling at the novelty of having furniture taller than my head again, and almost sat down. 'Almost', because the dining hall chairs were adult-sized, and my newly-shrunken height compelled me to have to climb up with one foot on the 'rung' between the chair legs. This put my eyes at direct line-of-sight with a silvery glitter poking out of the plush red cushioned upholstery, in turn compelling me to pause and look closer.

"Is there something wrong, my dear angel~?" a voice worriedly broke me away from examining the thumbtacks embedded in Rasiel's chair.

I glanced up. Belphegor wasn't looking at me. He was pretending to pay no attention, aloof, head (and bangs-covered eyes) bowed over his plate, whose sausages he was intently cutting up into small perfect cubes. His half-concealed, shadowed smirk gave him away.

"No. I thought I saw something. Thank you for asking, mother," I politely quelled her concerns, using that excuse to brush off the push pins onto the floor, where they landed with a clatter, before finishing my hop onto the chair. I didn't want to worsen hostilities, but passively letting Belphegor get away with things that would actually hurt me would set a bad precedent. I wasn't a masochist, and although I conceded I was probably a pushover at heart, years of learning to set and gently enforce boundaries with the troublemaking kids had taught me the importance of figuring out when I should and shouldn't forgive slights, lest I lose all authority and/or respect.

The upholstery was as plush as it looked, and I sank down into it with simple physical delight, turning to face the other three points of the little family square we made.

Both parents ignored the clatter, which was easily covered up by the metallic scrapes of cutlery. Belphegor's smirk shrank. He started eating the diced sausage, chomping loudly and perhaps intentionally obnoxiously. Both parents also ignored the chewing, with the serene attitude of someone either used to disconnecting from reality or editing out inconvenience facts of it with the ease of long practice.

I remembered the queen's visage from the nightmarish last night, and she was as curly golden-blonde and shining ruby-eyed as I recalled. She was smiling at me, diagonally, from where she sat. The king, to my direct right, was eerily closely colored, with stick-straight blond hair just a few shades paler than her golden glory, and eyes just a few shades darker. Straw-blond and maroon-red, I decided to deem him. They were both rather attractive, though, which I evaluated with gratefulness mostly due to the promise of Rasiel getting good genes, and partly because it'd be more enjoyable living with and interacting with them for the forseeable future.

While Belphegor's hair, identical to mine, was as straight as our father's and golden as our mother's, it was impossible to tell as of now if his eyes were also from our mother, or if he took slighter more after our father, or even if it was some blend of the two or an entirely different mutation. Red, I was pretty sure, was recessive, but then again, I was also pretty sure red was linked to a lack of pigment from severe albinism, and my brain had to remind me that 'new world', 'new rules'. And one of those rules just so happened to allow for blonde hair and red eyes, as well as probably-magical fire.

Everyone seemed currently content to focus on their food, with the queen and king cheerfully discussing the latest in kingdom gossip and seasonal crop harvest yield reports. Conversation starters weren't my forte, and though I had plenty of questions I wanted to ask, now didn't seem like the right time to 'casually' slip in an interrogation about 'what is the fire of our bloodline', 'why does activating it make me more qualified to be king', 'how did you let rasiel get away with throwing knives at the staff', 'how have you not noticed the unhealthy antagonism between your only two children who you profess and seem to genuinely adore very much', 'why do you hate me so much and what would convince you to stop it or at least ensure that there will be no more murder attempts', etc.

Ah, my brain corrected me primly, it wouldn't be 'more murder attempts'. I was royalty now, after all. That made me important enough to qualify for upgrading 'murder' to 'assassination.'

Joy.

So instead of tripping over and falling down a conversational hole my mouth would inevitably start in hopes of getting my foot stuck in there, I chose to scrutinize the offerings laid bare before me on Rasiel's plate, and compare them to what my breakfast mates were eating. Also, I was hungry. Near-death experiences (and possible activation of magical bloodline powers), I believed, tended to do that. It was likely the adrenaline burning up calories. Or the hysterical throat-choking nerve-freezing stomach-curdling horrific fear.

… Was that how adrenaline worked? I didn't teach that part of biology, usually.

Fried eggs, sausages, toasted whole wheat bread. Glass of milk. A bowl of what looked like the stewed lovechild of oatmeal and rice porridge. A communal jar of darkish purplish fruit jam I suspected to be a berry mix, a platter of decoratively molded butter, a big dish of apples, cherries, pears, and peaches. The siblings got identical servings, the parents got bigger ones.

I was kind of thirsty, but I was more of a water person than a milk person, especially when I had to assume it was whole milk by default, instead of my usual 1% or 2%. Call me a health fanatic or call me a conscious eater, I had grown out of whole milk since I was a child, and the fatty, creamy taste now just made me struggle to swallow.

Glancing around, I couldn't find a nearby server to request water. We were alone in the room.

… On the other hand, I _was_ a child again. (And who knew how clean the water here was even after boiling, if this turned out to be a more of a medieval setting after all.) I was curious to test that vague, half-recalled fun fact about taste buds stimulating different neural pathways for each person. And Belphegor obviously enjoyed his tall glass of milk, judging by all his emphatic and noisy slurping.

Then I remembered the thumb tacks. If Rasiel liked milk as much as Belphegor did, or even if he didn't, I found it quite easy to entertain the notion that Belphegor, bored of waiting around for his disliked (despised?) sibling to show up to breakfast, had taken the opportunity to spit in their drink. Simple and quick, with a sharp spike of spite. Their parents weren't the perceptive kind, either. Just lean over and hawk up some phlegm.

I didn't consider myself the paranoid type, but I could easily see myself _becoming_ one, living here, unless I got things straightened out with Belphegor and _fast_. I had looked after siblings before. Sibling rivalry was a real thing, though I'd never handled a case as toxic as this. There were many things one could do to make life less fun for someone living in same vicinity as you, _without_ getting lethal. Pranks covered a lot of ground, and a lot of the spectrum of malice.

I didn't drink the milk.

As an alternative, and because I liked fruit, I grabbed an apple and started peeling it. I was pleased by my lack of reaction to personally _handling_ a knife, even as I split my attention between pondering the strange differences between what I expected from a medieval breakfast and what I expected from a modern breakfast, and trying to get the entire skin off in one perfect unbroken coil. It looked like I'd just have to bear with holding back flinches at having knives _pointed_ at me.

A clearing of a child's throat broke my concentration. My grip jolted slightly - not much, but just enough to break off the forming coil into a simple curl instead. A look at Belphegor's grin confirmed my suspicions that he'd timed it on purpose.

"Ushishishi… Where's your crown, _Siel~?_ " he inquired 'innocently'. Which is to say, not actually with any convincing air of innocence, but instead with that certain tone of easily spotted faux-innocence that all children used when they _wanted_ to be caught out on a lie.

My automatic answer stuck in my throat as I eyed him warily.

Suddenly, I was rather glad I'd forgotten to grab the crown while dressing myself, and had, indeed, forgotten all about associating 'the crown' with 'something I should wear' until now. Whatever he'd done to the crown - and I was sure he'd done _something_ to the crown, with a question like _that_ , spoken in _words_ like that - was probably much less fatal than _a knife in the dark_ , but that still didn't mean I wanted any part of it.

"… I forgot to wear it today," I replied slowly but truthfully, trying to rearrange my facial features into the expression of someone who had tripped the mysterious trap and was attempting to cover up for it. I made a mental note to carefully check the inside and underside of the crown when I next went back to the bedroom.

He smirked with about 50% more teeth - though I couldn't help categorizing it as 50% more 'fang' - and then returned to his breakfast. So I had probably passed the test, whatever it was.

… Was passing the test a _good_ thing, though? He looked happier, but at the assumed expense of myself - or at least 'Rasiel' - so it wasn't very promising for my objective of improving our relationship. Was that a slight I shouldn't have forgiven? It'd just been easier to let him assume his scheme had worked. Still, a tendency to let go of petty things could snowball into allowing big things build up traction, and I was very concerned about what 'big things' would mean in this situation. 'Averting more assassination attempts' was pretty much the most basic simplification of my most pressing and current short-term goal, after all.

I crunched into my apple.

"Ahem," the king coughed. He turned to face me. Okay, game face on. Time to turn up the earnestness.

I swallowed, and then looked at him and tilted my head with a polite smile, simultaneously raising my eyebrows and widening my eyes in the universal cipher for _yes-I'm-listening-to-this-very-important-thing-you-have-to-say_ _©._ It was a practiced look, after going through formal education, countless job interviews, and way too many 'business mixers'. Although in the case of the latter, it had admittedly gotten me way more free drinks than my attempts at flirting, which always turned out too clumsy or subtle or intelligent (and thus resulting in the same problems as 'subtle', meaning nobody could tell if I was actually hitting on them or if they were just being egotistic).

Belatedly, it struck me that I didn't know how this expression worked out on Rasiel's face, which leant itself more to imperious glances or arch looks. Before I could internally get too anxious over this possible miscommunication of intent, though - what if I looked sarcastic? Could a 4-year-old look sarcastic? I've met plenty of overly cynical 4-year-olds though, and Belphegor seems just the type to snarkily ask adults they don't like where babies come from - Rasiel's father had already continued.

He appeared rather concerned. "Rasiel, you _are_ … _aware_ of why you had hair covering your eyes before?"

Looks like it was time for that conversation.

* * *

 _ **#**_

 ** _#_**

 ** _#_**

 ** _It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you._**

 _ **In which RaCel struggles with patient instincts to sympathize with Belphegor and be nice to him, against the facts of Belphegor hating their guts and having literally tried to kill them just last night.**_

 _ **Although he'd probably expected Rasiel to, like he said before, tackle him off the bed. (Un?)fortunately, he got a much less combat-ready RaCel who freaked out, froze up, and set things on Fire.**_

 _ **At the end of this arc I might just write a PoV!switch chapter from Bel, the maids, etc. Don't you love unreliable narrators?**_

 _ **In answer to a review question: Yes, the Varia will have a presence eventually after the Kingdom Arc.**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **[Profile: Chapter Four**_

 _ **Name: Rasiel [Classified]; …?**_

 _ **Nationality: Kingdom of [Classified]; …?**_

 _ **Titles: Prince; Heir Apparent; Crown Prince; …?**_

 _ **Nickname(s): Siel, Angel Child, Razzy**_

 _ **Age: 4**_ ½

 _ **Gender: AMAB Gender-neutral; Agender**_

 _ **Likes: Living; Soft Things; Neck-covers; Fruit; ...?**_

 _ **Dislikes: Impracticality; Spoiling Children; Outright Lying; Milk (?); ...?**_

 _ **Notes: - Awakened the 'fire of the royal bloodline' earlier than expected.**_

 _ **\- Dead ringer for Belphegor, the younger twin.**_

 _ **\- Default expression is calm and attentive. Has to consciously change expression. Does not always accurately project their intended expression.**_

 _ **\- Scares the maids (+ staff).**_

 _ **\- Forgetful of crown.**_

 _ **\- Burgeoning paranoia (?).**_

 _ **\- …?]**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **Please F &F, and review with what you'd like to see added onto the [Profile], which will evolve over chapters, or what you'd like to see in the story, or questions you'd like answered. They may be answered in the next author's note. HitC appreciates the support!**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _That… was…_

 _The most_ _unoriginal_ _name I'd ever heard, if she was being serious. And I've had past students present to me, in all sincerity, their pampered pedigree puppies called 'Spot' and 'Princess Fluffy'. One memorable child had proudly shown me how good 'Mister Wolfy Rex Fido' was at fetching Frisbees._


	5. day one (break spat)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

.

.

.

/ / _Age: 4_

.

 _Was_ I aware of why Rasiel had hair covering his eyes, other than for the sake of identicality in dressing up twins?

Obedient nod. Thank you, info-dump maids. "It's dangerous to expose our eyes to direct sunlight before they mature, since it hurts. … Father," I hastily tacked on.

"Yes. You- _know_ that awakening the bloodline doesn't mean you've already matured, right? It is still dangerous, and it will still hurt you if you go outside in direct light," he warned, still concerned.

… What were we, vampires?

No, vampires didn't have magic fire.

… or _did_ they, under 'new world rules'?

… Nope, no, they probably didn't.

"Yeah, you're not _that_ special, Mr. _Look-at-me-I'm-the-Heir,_ " Belphegor muttered. It was under his breath, but also very clearly loud enough for us all to hear easily, in that strange contradiction of (im-)plausible deniability and opinion-announcing that everyone mastered when they were young.

I assembled a properly grave expression, trying to convey how seriously I understood. "I know, father. But I had a long night to think about what awakening the bloodline means, father, and I've come to realize that, well. Frankly speaking, how I acted in the past was inexcusable. I was selfish, bratty, rude, mean…" I was just guessing off inferences, but the king was nodding along genially, unsurprised, with every negative adjective I listed out about his firstborn son and beloved heir. I filed that away to consider later. "I was childish, and that was wrong of me. I know I'm still a child, I know that a single night hasn't changed anything, but-"

I took a deep breath.

"-I'm ready to change my perspective and grow up now. I'm ready to be the heir you deserve and prepare to be the ruler I _should_ be, and showing my eyes is a _symbol_ of that promise to myself to change my ways and mature. … I will, of course, wear a hat or something to shade my eyes when outside, but I'm planning to spend the next few weeks studying up on the kingdom and my future duties, so that should give them some time to adjust."

A beat.

"… Father."

His expression relaxed. "Well, you _are_ my heir. I trust you know what you're doing. And might I say, I rather approve of your new outlook on life. Good job, Razzy. Keep trusting your gut; that's what my father and grandmother always told me!" The king ended on a warm chuckle and then preoccupied himself once more with scraping up the last bits of his oat porridge, satisfied. His wife giggled along, like delicate glass windchimes to his just-fed fireplace.

" _What!?"_ erupted Belphegor, climbing up to stand on his seat so he could slam his hands on the table.

Cutlery rattled.

"That is _so_ not _fair!_ Didn't you always say we had to keep our eyes covered because they were _absolute_ _proof_ of our royal blood and that it might- it might _invalidate_ that blood if we uncovered them before adulthood? But _now_ just because _Siel_ wants to you're letting him keep them uncovered! And somehow that makes him _more_ royal or whatever!?"

I winced, but didn't flinch. Guilt, not fear: this wasn't WbM-Belphegor, this was resentful, young, inferiority complex Belphegor, who had the raw smarts of someone much older than four, but not the patience or temper or understanding. I wasn't entirely the one at fault here, but I accepted some blame for my choice of wording in my explanation (although it'd been the best way to sell it to Rasiel's father).

I also accepted blame for being the one to provoke the conversation in the first place with a change in hairstyle, even if I'd done it to avoid reminders of WbM-Belphegor, and had hoped, secondarily, that physically differentiating the identical twins would help him realize Rasiel wasn't innately superior: they were both uniquely gifted and weakened, and they were each their own person, not a better copy for a heir and a worse copy for a backup prince.

Rasiel's mother frowned sharply, her smile dropping for the first time in my presence, exclamation points flattening out into tenser period. " _Don't speak that way to your father~_."

She relaxed. A little. Not enough for the exclamation points to make a comeback, but enough for the me to stop feeling uneasy at the jarring difference between her previous tone and this one. "You're still mommy's little demon~. Mommy's little angel just woke up his fire first~. And we rather like his new approach to his role~. You father told you that silly little myth about invalidating the blood because he was worried you might hurt yourselves~. He'd know best about eye sensitivity, after all, he's the one with the activation potential~. And I thought you didn't like your eyes uncovered anyway~?"

"I _don't_ , but that's not the _point_ , the _point_ is-" Belphegor began to argue back heatedly, angrily exasperated.

"When you're the heir and you've woken the fire, _then_ you can show your eyes before adulthood, as is your right as Belphegor of the Red Storm. As _one_ of the Red Storms. Until then, that's enough about eyes, Belphegor. Especially since we know you've always liked it better this way, like your mother said. We've always believed in some healthy competition among siblings to be good for building character, but this is not a competing point," the king sternly ended the discussion.

 _They called this_ _healthy_ _competition!?_

I'd sunk down during the spat, defensively hunched by reflex, but cautiously straightened. Everybody else talking had given me a chance to quietly vanish away half of my plate to the depths of Rasiel's digestive system, and also pick out what I assumed to be a last name. Seemed more like an hereditary epithet, but for now I decided to think of it as a family name, since that was basically what a hereditary epithet _was._

'Of the Red Storm.' I thought it rather trite, but fitting for a royal family in what I was, more and more, characterizing as some sort of fantasy world. High fantasy or low fantasy, I couldn't remember the difference.

Something about elves, maybe?

Belphegor snarled, but slumped back in his chair after a darting _look_ from his mother. He glared at his mostly-empty plate instead, darkly.

In all my years of looking after children, I'd never before seen someone drink milk petulantly, but Belphegor was managing it remarkably well… despite his prominent milk moustache that he didn't seem to notice or care about.

The queen noticed, though, and she cared about it. She leaned over closely and patted him down with a linen napkin, adoringly smiling all the way, good humor restored. I absently observed that Belphegor (and Rasiel) certainly didn't get their smiles from her. Nor from the father, at least not that I could tell.

I guess it was just one of those things.

"Now, children, mommy and daddy need to leave soon for the throne room to start doing their jobs for the day~! _Somebody_ has to approve all the appeals for the next resupply trip your _dashing_ father will be going on tomorrow~!" She winked. "After all, we can't have people spreading rumors that the king and queen aren't doing their duties as monarchs of our fair kingdom, now can we~?"

It would seem odd that I didn't know such a basic fact, but now was the perfect cue for me to interrupt and blurt out, "Why don't you say the name of our kingdom?"

I thought, and then quickly added a sweet, "Mother." Would that be enough to make her overcome her skepticism and humor me?

Apparently it would, or maybe she had no skepticism in the first place, because she happily obliged with a, "The kingdom~."

I was puzzled. "No, the _name._ "

She looked as puzzled as I felt, and then blinked, expression relaxing with understanding.

"Why, I _did_ say the name, it's just, 'The Kingdom~,'" the queen clarified with a lovingly indulgent smile. "Why the sudden interest, dear angel child of mine~?"

That… was…

The most _unoriginal_ name I'd ever heard, if she was being serious. And I've had past students present to me, in all sincerity, their pampered pedigree puppies called 'Spot' and 'Princess Fluffy'. One memorable child had proudly shown me how good 'Mister Wolfy Rex Fido' was at fetching Frisbees.

I smiled nervously. "Oh, it's all part of my new strive to be more mature and take a deeper interest in the kingdom, of course. I hope I haven't been too much of a burden in the past," I added, more honestly.

She melted.

"No, not at all~! Who's been telling you such _lies~?_ Mommy could _never_ think of _either_ of her _precious precious_ bundles of _joy_ as _burdens~!_ " She tsk-ed with mock indignation, lavishing another round of unabashedly cherishing smiles on said 'precious precious bundles of joy'.

I cringed again, this time from secondhand shame and not guilt. Belphegor's nose scrunched up.

Rasiel's mother, oblivious, clapped her hands briskly as she stood up, arm in arm with her husband.

"Well, it's time to run along off to class now~! Mommy and daddy have work to do, yes we do~! Your tutor must be waiting~! I look forward to hearing about what you've learned today at dinner~! Who's mommy's cute little pair of twin geniuses, now~? You are~! Yes, you~! You are my cute little pair of twin geniuses~!" she cooed, gushing with cloyingly saccharine sweetness.

I'd have immediately concluded she was insulting our intelligence, were it not for the sincerity cozying every tender syllable that bloomed from her petal pink rosebud lips, and her (short, but only in my memory) track record for really truly meaning every endearment she spoke, no matter how impossible it seemed that there was a person out there who actually talked like that to children they knew and lived with. Babies, maybe. Clearly unusually clever 4-year-olds, definitely not.

Instead, I felt rather remarkably like a dog at that moment, embarrassed at the overbearing antics of their human, and a pang of sympathy shook me for the pampered pedigree puppies I'd thought of earlier. I used to think them good only for a reflection of how spoiled the children themselves were, how down-to-earth the parents were in concern to what kids actually liked, and not much else, beyond perhaps winning colored pieces of silk. Now an epiphany dawned. Their's was not a practical existence, yes, but from a certain point of view they led a pitiful existence, to be sure, having their every achievement and every mediocre misdeed weighed at the same fixed, unchanging value.

When it looked like she was waiting for something, I offered her a polite smile and nod in lieu of the weak, uncertain grin I truly felt like giving. Silence was my shield here.

Belphegor appeared similarly displeased by the demeaning (if well-intentioned) affections of his mother, and also didn't reply. He opted instead to idly spin a breadknife around his fingers with disconcerting fluidity for a 4-year-old, the slouch of his shoulders communicating his annoyance as effectively as his expression, if said expression involved more than the lower 35% of his face.

"Be good for your poor teacher now," the king added. He looked at me with a proud smile. "And Razzy, darling, meet in my study after dinner. I can give you a few firsthand tips about what it means to rule, if you have questions, and I'm sure you do, my heir. I know _I_ did, when I first awakened the bloodline."

They left.

 _Belphegor_ looked at me with an expression that was the furthest from a proud smile that there could be. He was fingering the breadknife.

" _Heir,_ " he spat in a tone of utter loathing, apparently to no one in particular. It was comical in his childish high pitch, but not so much when it referred to _me_.

I was honestly worried I was going to be on the end of another murd- _assassination_ attempt before I got to the classroom. The classroom I _had_ to walk with Belphegor to, because I didn't know where it was otherwise.

Belphegor hopped down from the chair and impatiently smacked his side of the table. He had to stand on tip-toes and his head barely poked over the edge.

" _Well_ , Si- _el?_ I'm not going to _wait_ for you, _heir_ or _not_ ," he told me scornfully, and then accordingly turned around to walk off.

I had to hop down fast and scurry on short legs to catch up to him before he made it out of the dining hall.

I consoled myself and my still rather unsatisfied stomach (I'd only eaten about half of the plate) with the fact that he'd left the breadknife behind. I chose to ignore my brain pointing out that, again, that didn't mean he didn't still have a weapon on him that I couldn't see.

I tried to walk faster, but was forced to match pace with Belphegor. In the end, I compromised by carefully staying a few steps away from him in the oppressive silence, out of easy arm's reach.

It was going to be a _long_ walk.

And then I was going to have to repeat elementary school.

… a _looooong_ walk.

* * *

 ** _ **#**_**

 _ **#**_

 _ **#**_

 _ **Is Belphegor too OOC? I'm writing him way before his canon characterization, based off what we know of his canon childhood.**_

 _ **I'm taking name suggestions for the queen and king in the reviews. It doesn't have a role in plot progression. I've just been writing them as their titles.**_

 _ **My stash: 2 more full chapters and ~8k pre-written. The chapter-mutating profile is edited for length.**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **[Profile: Chapter Five**_

 _ **Name: Rasiel of the Red Storm**_

 _ **Nationality: Kingdom of [Classified]; The Kingdom; …?**_

 _ **Titles: Prince; Heir Apparent; Crown Prince; …?**_

 _ **Nickname(s): Siel; Angel Child; Razzy; …?**_

 _ **Likes: Living; Soft Things; Neck-covers; Fruit; ...?**_

 _ **Dislikes: Impracticality; Spoiling Children; Outright Lying; Milk (?); Dogs (?); ...?**_

 _ **Notes: - Default expression is calm and attentive. Has to consciously change expression. Does not always accurately project their intended expression.**_

 _ **\- Scares the maids (+ staff).**_

 _ **\- Forgetful of crown.**_

 _ **\- Burgeoning paranoia (?).**_

 _ **\- …?]**_

 _ **.**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _1\. 'Be a better sibling to Belphegor' was easier said than done, especially if he insisted on suspecting my every motive and thinking I was just faking the entire thing for nefarious plots of my own devisement._

… _I mean. I_ _kind_ _of_ _was_ _? But only partly!_

… _Okay, so if_ _I_ _were Belphegor and had a sibling like Rasiel and Rasiel was suddenly performing an about-face in temperament,_ _I'd_ _not trust me, either._


	6. day one (walk out)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

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.

.

/ _Age: 4_

.

We made it down one hallway in nothing but the same heavy silence. It was clear that Belphegor wanted some time to himself to stew in suppressed rage. He was obviously still upset from the breakfast tiff where his preconceived notions of Rasiel's favoritism had been pretty much confirmed all over again. If he wanted to cool down before we got to the classroom, I respected that, and didn't want to try interrupting with a clumsy attempt at apologizing or explaining.

I was doing a lot of apologizing today. Like I thought: I wasn't cut out for this whole 'starting a conversation' thing. I'd always been more content to play 'thoughtful and helpfully guiding listener.'

Turning a corner, I was caught off guard from my keen study of the chipped flagstones and cleanly burning torches encased in what looked like glass, when, halfway down _that_ stretch of empty hallway, Belphegor suddenly drew nearer to me.

Instinct had me swiveling around to face him as soon as I heard that tell-tale soft shuffle against the ground, alerted to the movement of someone I couldn't track by sight. Teachers had eyes on the backs of their heads. So did mothers, and any authority figure in charge of watching over and keeping safe a gaggle of youngsters too inexperienced with life to have developed a set of common sense tips, like 'don't throw that paper into an open stove to see what happens', and 'don't give the animals people food, especially chocolate'.

I hadn't even managed to spin all the way around before he slammed his pointy child's elbow into the side of my squishy child's gut. It was cushioned - somewhat- by my springy child's ribcage, but I could still feel the impact quite well.

… I supposed the rage couldn't be suppressed forever. 4-year-old temper, my brain was happy to remind me. Uncanny intelligence, but still a 4-year-old temper.

I tensed up a little, withholding a wheeze by sheer force of will. Otherwise, I didn't react, beyond a slight twitch in my shoulder from aborting a bent-arm shielding gesture.

Looks like there was no support for my theory on reflexes carrying over, or I would've blocked. I hoped I would've blocked, anyway.

My unresponsiveness unsatisfied him. He was looking for a fight, and hadn't gotten one. I refused to reward that kind of behavior with what he wanted, particularly not when what he wanted went directly against my objective of _lessening_ hostilities. It would undo any progress I made, of which I honestly doubted I'd made any so far. If anything, that entire breakfast scene that already put that progress into the negatives.

So really, I wasn't really worried about _losing_ goodwill, per say, because there didn't seem to be any goodwill left for me to _lose_. But at the same time, it wasn't like I wanted to self-sabotage myself for any future goodwill-earning by continuing this cycle of aggression, no matter how habitual he thought it to be.

I doubted he'd ever thank me for this, but I genuinely believed it to be in his best interest. His best interests involving growing up less of a-

At moment, I couldn't really think of a good PC substitute for 'psychopath'. Although I was sure there _had_ to be one. I had firm confidence in the ability of humankind to come up with at least one acceptably child-friendly euphemism for _everything_. Other people placed their confidence in deities or A Deity. By contrast, I found that _my_ expectations of humanity's foibles had a much higher rate of being given supporting proof.

Physical conflict having failed to engage, he changed tack to inciting verbal conflict.

"Ushishishi~…" Belphegor trailed off in strained laughter through a grit-toothed grin, not sounding like he had anything he wanted to laugh about, if one held the opinion that laughter meant the laugher was expressing positive emotion. "Since when did you care about kissing up, Siel~?"

It was disappointing how little of his expression I had to work with after subtracting the usual signs of emotion from the eyes, eyebrows, nose, and even forehead. Still, it was fairly easy to tell that he was probably glaring at me distrustfully under all that hair.

(Even after hearing the reasons of 'tradition' and 'eyecare safety' in favor it it, I maintained my stance that it was a ridiculously impractical hairstyle, and honestly, kind of ugly. Children's charm points often included their expressively proportioned eyes and softly rounded cheeks, to balance out their innate mastery of innocent cruelty to other children. Shades and hats and careful watching when outdoors were the preferable recommendation. It wasn't as though they were at a lack for staff to assign temporary childwatching duty to.)

Time to set things straight, and give that apology a go. Would he believe me, though?

"I'm not trying to be a kiss up," I disagreed gently, but made sure to deny up-front and outright.

Kids always hated kiss ups, unless they were one. When you became an _adult_ was when you realized that grown-up kiss ups were just called 'successful corporate businessmen' and maybe, if they were _really_ good, 'politicians'.

"I really do want to- be a better person. A- _new_ person. And if you'd let me, a better sibling? I was terrible to you before, and I'm sorry," I ended on a tentatively peacemaking note.

He snorted derisively. "Uh-huh. Yeah, _right_. As if acting like you're _really_ an _angel child_ will _make_ you one. _You_ just think you're so much _better_ now because you awakened the royal right _early_ , so _suddenly_ that makes you the _mature_ one? _Heir?_ "

No, no he would not. To be expected, really.

I still had basically no idea what the 'royal right' even _meant_ , for agnostic god's sake.

"I'm not-" I took a breath. _"_ I'm not acting, Belphegor," I refuted patiently, carefully dragging back my voice when it threatened to subconsciously raise for emphasis. "I'm not, and I really do want to change my attitude, and that just happens to start and end with being a better person. I don't know what I can do that will convince you to believe me on this, but I know _I'm_ being honest about my intentions, and I _will_ continue to carry on reforming myself until you _do_. Until everyone does, because it will be the _truth_."

I imagined his eyes narrowing. His forced smile certainly soured enough. He tilted his head, and his crown tilted with him. My brain unhelpfully provided me with the distracting consideration of if his crown had ever listed so far it fell right off.

" _Fine_ , then, _reformed_ Siel-" he began, proving true all my earlier stereotyping about him being one of those kids who got handed an extra dose of sarcasm. The squeaky high voice only managed to modulate it to a _very lightly mild_ flavor of 'amusing'.

"It's 'Si' now, if I really want to make a break from- how I was before," I interrupted on a flash of inspiration, venturing forth my most sincere smile and trying my absolute best to veritably project good intentions in his direction.

It would also help _me_ define myself from past-me and Rasi-me-l. Not that I referred to myself in third person much. (Or at all, except to the very very young babies who unavoidably summoned such baby talk to everyone that interacted with them, regardless of how erudite the person tended to articulate themselves otherwise; that was a scientific fact, proven through the Labs of Life.)

I didn't subscribe to superstitions like crossing one's fingers for luck, but I felt sorely tempted to at that moment. 1. 'Be a better sibling to Belphegor' was easier said than done, especially if he insisted on suspecting my every motive and thinking I was just faking the entire thing for nefarious plots of my own devisement.

… I mean. I _kind_ of _was?_ But only partly!

… Okay, so if I were Belphegor and had a sibling like Rasiel and Rasiel was suddenly performing an about-face in temperament, _I'd_ not trust me, either.

It was a shame I couldn't see his eyes right then, because I had no idea how to interpret the expression he was giving me other than 'disbelieving' with a sprinkle of 'derisiveness.' That… was probably a good enough interpretation to work off of, though.

"Alright, _Si_ -" He paused, chin jerking towards me expectantly, before jeering, "What, not going to interrupt me _again~?_ "

I smiled pleasantly and didn't take the bait. Absently, my brain chose to translate that chopped-off syllable into the _letter_ {C}, steadfastly insisting that that was exactly what he was pronouncing.

"Race me to the classroom," he commanded imperiously.

Where had _that_ come from?

… On further reflection and some mental dissection, I could kind of see how his train of thought had switched tracks. Belphegor wanted to re-establish their dynamic. He was used to Rasiel beating him at things, and so, when confronted with Rasiel's sudden personality change, he sought to either get back to normal or discover what new 'normal' to expect, and then re-orient his own approach accordingly.

… I mean, or so I assumed. It'd been a couple of years since those Psych classes, and I'd skipped over it for a degree as neither major _or_ a minor. That was just me extrapolating from my perspective of events and a lot of experience with how people thought. Kids were just, _smaller_ people. I was good at thinking small; I liked the detail.

Answer, answer. Answer? That was easy.

"We don't need to compete all the time, Belphegor," I deflected expertly. It was true, and something I wanted dearly to instill into him. Conveniently, I also had no clue where the classroom was, which was why I was even walking next to him and opening up opportunities for lingering anger-motivated interaction anyway. " _You're_ better at some things than me, and _I'm_ better at some things than you. It's a matter of balance."

"And what _am_ I better at? {C} Si~?" he mockingly questioned, obviously thinking Rasiel was too prideful to openly admit a weakness.

I hesitated. I had no idea what Rasiel and Belphegor were each actually good at.

I'd known of their existences for less than a day! I wasn't _psychic_ , even if I was seemingly now _pyrokinetic_.

He pounced on my hesitation with triumphantly justified glee.

" _Shishishi~._ I _knew_ it. _Well,_ if you _really_ want to be a 'better sibling', then race me, {C} Si. What, afraid of finally losing?"

It wasn't that.

"It's not that," I protested slowly. I scrambled for an excuse. He wasn't going to let up on this, particularly not when I've just shown reluctance. He was going to press this until he felt at least somewhat satisfied.

"I don't want to sit through class sweaty. Let's race back to the dining hall after lessons," I compromised, mentally slumping my shoulders. I had a pretty good memory, and I'd been paying attention to try and find my way around. I could find my way back to the dining hall by backtracking once we got to the classroom, no problem.

Mollified temporarily, Belphegor nodded haughtily and twisted around to march forwards jauntily. "During lunch break. Ushishishi~, I'm looking forward to it, {C} Si~!" he announced graciously without looking back.

With no other way, I trailed after him, exhausted in spirit but knowing not to show it in body. Small children were like pirahnas when it came to scenting out weakness and gnawing on opportunity. Luckily, you could usually train them like dogs, although I wasn't the biggest fan of dogs.

The air of imperial assertiveness Belphegor wore like a cape would've been cute on any other less-murderous child. On him, it was mostly starting to get aggravating.

… Was I letting our first meeting color my opinions of him?

Yes. Yes, I was. ( _I was entitled to some budding PTSD after almost dying via knifepoint insertion through eyeball_.)

And I didn't see anything wrong with that, as long as I didn't let it color my interactions with him. Thinking disgruntled (and justified!) thoughts about someone was fine, provided they didn't negatively bias your conduct. I was still going to put forth my best efforts in peacemaking, and I was still going to treat him with the minimum modicum of decency I believed every child, however petty or ill-raised, deserved.

 _That_ was simply professionalism.

.

.

I intently memorized the series of paths and doorways (and one staircase) we had to pass to get to the classroom at the top of one tower. There was no watch for me to judge how long the walk took, but my brain clock guesstimated it to be about a eight minute walk, so maybe a little less than half that at a converted running pace.

When we finally arrived in front of the open door, I could barely glimpse a blackboard before a head and its attached body poked out, blocking the view.

"You're late," the teacher - presumably - snapped in a low voice. Alto? Tenor? "Get in here already, before you two waste _more_ time _loitering_."

They withdrew in a swish of loose fabric.

Well, good to see at least one of the staff doesn't fear my face. Too bad they just seem to hate it.

Belphegor tossed his head in a slight motion I associated with eye-rolling, grumbled something about 'no proper respect for a prince,' and entered without stutter.

I did, as well, and hoped the teacher didn't demand we address them by name. Or, indeed, definite pronouns.

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 _ **There are six multi-chapter mini-arcs and one one-chapter filler/lore-arc in the Kingdom Story Arc. There are four multi-chapter mini-arcs plotted out so far for the next story arc, and a general direction for the third story arc. No names will be given for fear of spoilers, but every mini-arc will have two words for a title.**_

 _ **RaCel assumes 'they' until they are given otherwise indicator in the speech of either others in reference to the person, or the person themselves. They stereotyped the maids, though. Teacher is not non-binary, and also not nameless.**_

 _ **I really do appreciate each and every review (and refresh several times a day to check). Thank you! :]**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **[Profile: Chapter Six**_

 _ **Name: Rasiel of the Red Storm**_

 _ **Nationality: Kingdom of [Classified]; The Kingdom; …?**_

 _ **Nickname(s): Siel; Angel Child; Razzy; Si/{C}; …?**_

 _ **Likes: Fruit; Detail; Preparedness; ...?**_

 _ **Dislikes: Enabling Bad Habits; Outright Lying; Milk (?); Dogs; ...?**_

 _ **Notes: - Default expression is calm and attentive. Has to consciously change expression. Does not always accurately project their intended expression. Default tone is calm and calming.**_

 _ **\- Scares the maids (+ staff).**_

 _ **\- Forgetful of crown.**_

 _ **\- Burgeoning paranoia (?).**_

 _ **\- Good memory.**_

 _ **\- …?]**_

 _ **.**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _I looked at him helplessly, uncertain if I was_ _bullying_ _a 4-year-old or if I was_ _being_ _bullied by a 4-year-old. One of those options was certainly worse, but in the crux of the moment I couldn't quite tell which._


	7. day one (run about)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

.

.

.

/ / _Age: 4_

.

The blackboard I'd glimpsed was hung on the wall behind a lecturer's lectern. Slightly above it was suspended an analog clock, curiously plastic. This was the wall to the left of the doorway, and the room itself was pretty small. Around the size of my bedroom, roughly. Here was a room more meant for tutoring than teaching, and it showed.

There were only two teenager-sized desks and chairs, carved out of smooth, pale tan wood. They faced the blackboard and lectern, and were slightly behind the doorway. A notebook - a _modern_ , if fancy one, with thick unlabeled covers and unlined even paper - an eraser, a pencil, and a hand sharpener were already neatly set up on each desk. The pencils were those 'natural' looking ones with no painted coat or eraser, just a pole of lead embedded in a larger pole of smoothly shaven wood. But the eraser and hand sharpener were definitely modern, being made of white rubber and plain plastic, although devoid of any branding labels. The rest of the room was taken up by bookshelves of hardcover books I longed to examine, but couldn't just yet.

Belphegor automatically bee-lined for the left set-up with a white notebook and sharpener, and I, slinking in behind, assumed possession of the right set-up with a black notebook and sharpener, apparently color-coded by our shirts (and maybe crowns, not that I was wearing mine today).

The teacher was an impatient-looking person with premature gray hairs - that matched their gray eyes - threaded throughout their wavy sand-blonde bob. They had on no hat, but clipped back their side-parted bangs with an unadorned metal hair clip. It was difficult to say what their clothes were like, beyond 'brightly covered' and 'billowing'. It was mostly obscured by the lectern, anyway. Either robes, or a loose shirt and voluminous bottoms that lended themselves equally to the interpretation of 'pants' and 'skirt'.

They left the door open, maybe for more air; the only window in the room was also half-open, though it was glass-paned and framed by gauzy curtains.

They didn't volunteer a name - with the expectation that we already knew by now, after presumably having sat through lessons for a year or so already - and jumped straight into lecturing once we settled into our seats, running over a rehash of what had been taught yesterday: a lot of third grade-level maths and spelling. Much too advanced for a typical 4-year-old, but decent enough at giving me an expectant baseline for the supposedly genius twins.

Their tone was one of somebody who didn't quite care enough about their job to muster up hate for it.

"Now, any questions before we move on to the day's curriculum?" they barked, eyes lidded and clearly not expecting much.

Well, if they're _offering_.

I raised my hand. "Teacher?"

They arched an eyebrow, gesturing impatiently for me to go on, so that form of address was fine.

"This is kind of off-topic, but when I asked th-" I cut myself off from saying 'the queen', quickly changing words. "-my mother earlier about the name of the kingdom, she didn't seem to know."

The teacher scoffed, crossing their arms. It was a motion that did interesting things to the fabric draping over said limbs, which fluttered in the air for a full second before primly deciding to land in the folds that they did. "Well, she wouldn't, would she? The _queen_ was _kingdom_ -born. Why would she _care?_ The name of our kingdom is one of those… dusty historical factoids that the ordinary citizen can pretty easily live without ever knowing. Now, the _king_ would have to know, because he's a ruler with royal blood. And as a royal educator… I happen to know as well."

There was a pause for breath before they briskly continued in sarcastically cutting tones, "So now I _also_ know that you _clearly_ weren't paying attention in class last month when I _specifically_ went over how the Kingdom of Storms is named for the founding and currently in-power family, _maytheyruleeternally,_ whose family crest was a burning red stormcloud."

Another pause, this time for a head-tilted contemplation. "Although," they allowed begrudgingly, "if you listen to the more… _unsatisfied_ commoners gossip, there's certainly several less _official_ names in unpopular circulated use." They personally seemed disdainful of said alternative names, and didn't give any examples.

"No more questions, brat A," they preemptively stopped me with a severe frown upon seeing my hand raise again, "those can wait until it's history rotation again on Friday."

It was, according the neatly marked out chalk words on the blackboard, currently the 26th of June and a Tuesday.

So I'd nearly been murdered on a Monday, good to know. Garfield was right about the most dreadful day of the week.

I nodded meekly and lowered my hand, properly scolded. Belphegor chimed in on the peanut gallery with a snide snicker, with the schadenfreude all children in a classroom feel at a classmate being called out by the teacher.

Pay attention to the words, my brain scolded.

Which words?

All of them!

So I split my attention between rereading the chalked up words and listening to the teacher's college-style lecture on the the water cycle, where we apparently were supposed to write down our own notes for personal study.

… ?

They're in English! my brain, exasperated, revealed.

And so they were. I hadn't really paid particular notice to this before, this being my first time seeing written words through Rasiel's eyes, and having automatically translated meaning from reading English words, but yes, the words were in English and the date was in Arabic numbers. There wasn't enough of a sample for me to determine time period, but what spelling I did see appeared perfectly modern, for what it was worth in concerns to calendar terms.

Come to think of it… I'd been speaking instinctively, but the words had been English, too, so I hadn't found anything strange. I'd been hearing English, as well. Both output and input, upon further reflection, were oddly accented in a way I couldn't place exactly beyond 'not-identifiably-American-dialects' and 'not-so-accented-I-can't-easily-understand'. I hadn't taught or studied faking accents, although I'd had a friend-of-a-friend who did, and I was a little regretful how I hadn't paid attention to her drunken expositions on the subject when we met up at bar parties.

My primary language had carried over, then. Had my others?

On further thought, I was pleased to discover I hadn't lost any of my linguistic skills in the- life transfer (?). They hadn't been any of the blurred, vague memory areas. I was as fluent in Mandarin as I'd always been, which was pretty fluent, and as familiar in Spanish as I'd always been, which was rather decent for having only learned from classes, videos, and Duolingo. I'd always meant to practice it conversationally more with native speakers, but had never gotten around to making time for that before whatever it was that happened, happened.

This concluded, I refocused entirely on the lecture. I didn't really need to write down notes for this - it'd be kind of shameful if I _did_ need to - but I did so anyway, to both further my new impression of Rasiel as a faithful student and to practice my handwriting with a new hand.

Gratifyingly, once I paid conscious attention to it, Rasiel was right-hand dominant. That would make retraining myself for ambidextrousness a lot easier, considering I had the memory of starting off left-hand dominant already. It would just take some reinforcing to meld mind memory with muscle memory, and having a young and flexible body should help - or so I hoped, though of course I didn't start trying that out in the classroom. It might give off the sense that I was fooling around, which a lifelong urge to seek approval from authority figures felt distinctly horrified at.

Anyway, letting the teacher's words (they'd moved onto the characteristics of life) just kind of sink into me gave me plenty of time to refine my dexterity, and also snoop in the past pages of Rasiel's notebook.

Fortunately, I quickly got the hand of it, pun not intended. Unfortunately, this notebook was rather new, containing only massive suspicious ink stains I credited to Belphegor, and then one or two pages of fractions and simple problems for the last four letters of PEMDAS. Of uncertain fortunateness, my handwriting was distinctly different from Rasiel's; not quite my narrow, neat printing as an adult, but my reflexive shift in grip rendered it more orderly than like Rasiel's looser scrawls.

All in all, class time felt mildly productive but mostly jokingly easy.

The hardest part wasn't giving the answers the teacher was looking for without falling into lethargy - the hardest part was staying calm and not reacting to Belphegor's constant petty harrassments, like flicking crumpled up balls of paper at my hair, bumping my desk, and once, emptying his full sharpener stash of pencil shavings onto my lap.

This was all done in plain view. I looked pleadingly at the teacher, who appeared cognizant but unmoved, like an impassive, indifferent idol idly noting a ritual sacrifice.

The less I reacted, the more he escalated in an attempt to provoke a reaction, until finally, about two hours in (we'd arrived at 7:53) I had to do something. I leaned over and issued a whispery threat to cancel the race if he continued. He frowned but acquiesced, subsiding. I brushed off the last bits of wood shaving from my trousers, glad and a little guilty that I probably wasn't going to be the one cleaning them up.

The teacher arched an eyebrow at the exchange, never once stopping their steady drone.

Lunch couldn't come fast enough.

At 11:30, they glanced at the clock and yawned. From the depths of their lectern shelf, a napkin-covered basket was unearthed and set on top of the lectern, and a small stool was dragged out. The teacher handed a napkin to each of us, then gave us each a rather large sandwich (chicken, tomato, spinach, and… mayonnaise?) and a capped glass bottle of milk, before sitting back on their stool, unfolding a napkin on their lap, and taking out their own, even larger sandwich and bottle of…

I chose to think it was cider, and not its barley-descended cousin. A responsible educator would never drink even a light intoxicant in the presence of children, right?

… Then again, this was assuming that they were a responsible educator, or even that the same standards of job security applied in the- Kingdom of Storms.

I assumed the kitchens had already prepared all of this beforehand, judging by the moist sweat on the cool bottle and the conclusion that this was way too much effort for the teacher to undergo personally. Having only eaten half of my breakfast, I heartily fell upon the modest feast, intensely aware of Belphegor's stare on me as I ate. I couldn't see it, but he sure made sure I could feel it. His foot tapped an impatient beat against the stone floor, even as he chugged down his own bottle and downed his own sandwich.

Upon tentatively but thirstily tasting the milk, I was surprised to find I enjoyed it. Rather, Rasiel's taste buds enjoyed it, and his dry throat definitely thanked me.

The second I set down the bottle, Belphegor, who'd finished before me - I'd taken care to eat slower for worry of digestion problems when running with food just sloshing about - was already at the door, itching to take off. I joined him, more sedate in composure, and hiding my nerves. Competition of any kind always got my heart beating a little too fast.

"Ushishishi~… _Ready_ , set, _go_ -"

He was off, and so was I.

.

.

I ran, but carefully paced myself. At first I kept up with Belphegor, but as we drew closer to the dining hall doors, I started putting down my feet a little slower and heavier. Subtly, I lagged behind more and more as the distance we still had to go became less and less. In an effort to not arouse suspicion, I did make sure to not lag _too_ much; so by the end of the race, Belphegor was still in my sight, and it only took a few more seconds for me to catch up to me at the door where he'd already finished smacking the open doorframe.

"Good race," I tried to say with a smile, walking up to congratulate him. His back was to me, since he was still facing the doorframe. Naturally, I couldn't read his expression. But he'd won, so he should be happy, right?

I was promptly talked over (and almost bowled over) by a furious Belphegor who reached up to grab me by the unbuttoned shirt collar and shake me slightly, in synch with the shakiness of his shoulders from pent-up aggression.

I underestimated his intellect in my appeal to his maturity. If he wasn't a 4-year-old genius, that probably would've slid right past him. But, well. He was.

(It was kind of refreshing, out of context. Not many children ended up with as many smarts as they did family inheritance. _In_ context, I would've eagerly settled at that moment for Belphegor being a happy if average child whose greatest issue were abandonment issues from distant parents.)

"Stop talking down to me!" he screamed, temper completely lost. Fortunately, no spittle. A surprise, really, considering how slobbery humans generally were until they learned fine precision restraint of their bodily excretions. A few heavy breaths in silence seemed to calm him down enough to shift from 'shouting in my face' to simply 'ranting in my face', which was still a notch above 'ranting at the breakfast table.'

"I've _never_ beaten you in a race! I _know_ you let me win Siel! I know _you_ , Siel, and that was _you_ letting me _win_! As if I can't tell when my _twin_ is _purposefully_ dragging behind! _You_ just think I can't win unless you _let_ me, huh? Admit it! You don't! Well, you're _wrong!_ Race me again!" Belphegor demanded hotly.

His shoulders trembled for a second longer, before he jerked his hands away from me like they burned. Instead, he turned his head to the side and bit out something in a low, irate mutter that sounded oddly like 'kaching', visibly straining to regain his metaphysical grip.

I looked at him helplessly, uncertain if I was _bullying_ a 4-year-old or if I was _being_ bullied by a 4-year-old. One of those options was certainly worse, but in the crux of the moment I couldn't quite tell which.

"It's {Si} C," I corrected weakly, to give my frantic brain some breathing space in its search for a way out of this. My hands busied themselves with the all-important task of fiddling with the ends of my neckerchief and smoothing down my crinkled collar. "And-"

Denying I'd let him win was a straight up lie.

"-I don't think you can't win unless I let you," I flimsily finished, with the crushing sense that I was just making it all worse.

 _What help are_ _you_ _, brain!? Abandoning me in my minute of need!?_

He- didn't _glare_ , because that needed visible eyes, but he scowled fiercely at me. I mentally added on the eyes.

" _Race me again,_ " he insisted flatly, smile no longer even forced.

Brain, thou has failed me. Failsafe verbal flailing, engage. "I didn't mean to- make you feel like I was condescending in any way. I just wanted to try and fix-"

"I don't _care_ , race me _again_ , and _this_ time do it like you _mean_ it, _Siel_ ," Belphegor ground out, chin up in stubborn defiance.

The squeaky high pitch wasn't even very lightly mildly amusing, now.

I still held back.

"Siel- { _C_ }, don't you want to be a better sibling~? _Race me_."

It was blatant, shameless, completely transparent manipulation.

I folded miserably, knowing that we weren't getting anywhere like this anyway. Break was going to end soon anyway. At least this way, maybe he'd be encouraged to separate Siel and {C}, if only because he thought I'd be more amenable when addressed with the latter. It was a useful misconception I didn't mind enabling.

"Alright, I'll race you back."

* * *

 _ **#**_

 ** _#_**

 ** _#_**

 ** _Diplomacy check: natural one, critical failure._**

 _ **Anachronisms, language, possible ingrained censorship, oh my! Just keep in mind C has no idea about their setting (their best guess is a fantasy world), and has to take the information they're given at face value, for now. There**_ _ **will**_ _**be an explanation for all this eventually (that filler/lore arc I mentioned earlier, and several steps [two arcs' worth] of foreshadowing along the way.)**_

 ** _I'm fitting a lot into this arc for just one day, but there'll be a timeskip of a few months for the next arc. I do still need more name suggestions (but thank you, fernandfeather) for the king and queen, before I write the end of arc 'bonus content' with alt. PoVs of events. I'm also taking scene suggestions for that, by the way._**

 _ **.**_

 _ **[Profile: Chapter Seven**_

 _ **Name: Rasiel of the Red Storm**_

 _ **Nationality: Kingdom of Storms; The Kingdom; The [Classified] Kingdom …?**_

 _ **Language(s): English; Mandarin; Spanish; …?**_

 _ **Nickname(s): Siel; Angel Child; Razzy; Si/{C}; Brat A; …?**_

 _ **Likes: Detail; Preparedness; Milk; ...?**_

 _ **Dislikes: Enabling Bad Habits; Outright Lying; Dogs; ...?**_

 _ **Notes: - Default tone is calm and calming. Is not always aware of how this can be taken.**_

 _ **\- Scares the maids (+ staff). Not the teacher.**_

 _ **\- Burgeoning paranoia (?).**_

 _ **\- Good memory.**_

 _ **\- Ambidextrous (?).**_

 _ **\- Neat, narrow, print-like handwriting.**_

 _ **\- …?]**_

 _ **.**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _The teacher told me to wait a minute after class._

 _I did, and they spent that minute staring at me in critical silence, eyes narrowed._

 _Patiently, I kept still and didn't fidget. I was familiar with the 'silent pressure' scare tactic. I didn't use it much myself, preferring the gentler 'inviting expectation' form of nonverbal coaxing, but some of my colleagues swore by it for the more tenacious troublemakers._


	8. day one (book it)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

.

.

.

/ / _Age: 4_

.

I… wasn't really surprised when Rasiel's body, when pushed to the limit, managed to reach the classroom door a few seconds before Belphegor, aching and panting as it was for oxygen after going _up_ the stairs this time, instead of down them.

I observed Belphegor's reaction to his loss.

His was a quieter anger now. He stood off to the side, nearer the flight of stairs than the classroom door, breathing in roughly. Head bowed, it was effective at covering his expression. When he looked up and watched me watch him, he affixed a sharp smile onto his face again. " _That_ was a good race, {C}. I'll see you at _dinner_ then, _brother_."

Belphegor was quick to take his leave, now, descending the stairs almost as fast as he'd scrambled up them only a minute before.

I was… uncertain? Somehow, that seemed too much of an anticlimax after the drama before.

Was that supposed to just be a _general_ hint of displeasure and ominous promise of dinnertime plots, or was that a _specific_ signal that classes were over for the day? Or both?

A half day of daily lessons when there was no other school felt… a little short, to me. But again, royalty.

When I got too close to one of the tower windows and caught a sunray right in my eyes, I hissed in pain and reflexively withdrew, suddenly feeling more enlightened to the purpose of the ridiculously impractical haircuts. Shading my eyes, though, let me track the shrunken figure of the castle's other royal child sauntering into the gardens below.

Belphegor wandered around a bit, before promptly disappearing under the shade of a tall tree to poke at something with a stick. A frightened bird fled the rustling branches.

He looked more relaxed, alone.

"Are you coming back to class or _not_ ," the flat intonation of the teacher's voice rang out from behind me, making me jolt in startlement. I whirled around, hand dropping to my side again. "Break's over, brat A. You've still got lessons. I don't, despite my wishes, get paid for standing around doodling all day."

"… Belphegor left already," I pointed out hesitantly. As if his absence wasn't already glaringly obvious in the small landing.

Grey eyes rolled. "Why would he have to take heirship classes when he's not going to be the heir? Don't look at me, brat A, I don't decide these things, I just teach 'em."

By the tone of their voice, they taught them reluctantly, unenthusiastically, and much against their will.

Fantastic. Another point of resentment and 'favoritism.'

I mentally rephrased that, taking away the air-quotes. It _was_ basically favoritism. There wasn't any other reason why a prince couldn't sit in and be as prepared as the heir - who was, of course, only heir 'apparent'. Having only Rasiel take heirship lessons just emphasized the status gap, despite being twins.

Their voice became muffled, now that they'd retreated back into the room. The irritability hadn't faded in the least though. "You _know_ you're the one who's going to be crowned, you don't need me to affirm that for you. Don't drag me into your little one-upmanship game. Now stop playing dumb and get in here."

.

.

Heirship classes turned out to be a little disappointing. They mostly involved a lot of lecturing about what my brain helpfully summarized as {noblesse oblige}, economics, and philosophy about power, and not nearly enough opportunity for learning about the kingdom itself. The teacher had dismissed that as under 'history and lore', filed under, again, Friday classes - and to be rearranged at their whim.

It was relieving to know that 'new world rules' still followed the same calendar and clock, at least. Even if so much more didn't make sense, I could be sure I'd never be mistaken about _when_ I was.

… although the year was still unknown, and beginning to concern me.

I wasn't allowed to take out books from the shelves, either, whether it was to flick through during class time or to borrow out for my free time. When asked why, I was plainly told that I wasn't trusted enough with the teacher's personal books after 'having seen what you two did to each others' old notebooks', and that I should go check out the castle library for change, if I was genuinely interested in furthering my education.

I was also informed that I had to leave all stationery behind in the classroom, for much the same vague reference to inter-sibling sabotage. Which explained a little, like why the teacher had presumably cleared away (locked up?) Belphegor's notebook and writing supplies during our absences, but left a lot more unexplained, like what exactly Rasiel and Belphegor _had_ done to each others' notebooks that demanded these apparently recent replacements. (My theory of the ink stains being credited to Belphegor was partly confirmed through circumstantial evidence, however.)

Whatever it was that they'd done, it also had resulted in us never getting any more homework.

In the end, ruling lessons only lasted a few more hours, from around noon to four in the afternoon. I got another bottle of milk, this time considerably warmer, for my half-hour break halfway through. The teacher spent it flipping through a hardback book that I couldn't see the title of. Unusually boldly, I craned my neck and squinted to make it out, on the assumption that if they hadn't cared about Belphegor's harrassments, they wouldn't care to stop my curiosity.

It was… a dictionary. What edition, wasn't embossed on the visible cover, and I had too much shame to go up and request they interrupt their studying for me.

With my ban on books and fearing I'd lose track of time if I went off too far for too long, I mostly spent it with a quick trip to my personal bathroom - quite a long way from the classroom tower, but it let me avoid asking someone where another bathroom was.

I didn't really pass anyone in the halls, anyway, which seemed kind of strange. What were they all busy with? Maybe that throne room 'appeals session' the queen had mentioned earlier.

After a brief grappling session with my bar of soap, which had somehow (probably Belphegor in his free time) been glued down to its ceramic holder, and not questioning the anachronistically convenient existence of a toilet paper roll, I returned to the classroom. The rest of the time, until I was to continue learning about alternate modes of taxation systems, I preoccupied with observing Belphegor playing outside. The room's sole window was easily accessible if I perched on his left-sided desk. He seemed to be having fun tossing stones at something out of view, laughing and smiling without the strained quality my presence seemed to force. Rasiel's presence.

And then the teacher closed their book and it was back to taxes and acceptable margins of corruption via legal bribery.

Four o' clock arrived leisurely, in due time. The concepts introduced weren't difficult, even if they'd be insipidly dull and overly advanced for a 4-year-old to sit still long enough through. Personally, I found it an amusingly… _different_ thought exercise - despite that prior tinge of disappointment - in what an administrator of a large group of subjects had to consider. It was leaning towards the absurd, but in a way that made sense if you considered it long enough. Although I was fairly sure that what Rasiel was being taught wasn't exactly typical for an heir. This matched up well enough with my fair assurance that the Kingdom of Storms wasn't a exactly typical kingdom, either.

.

.

The teacher told me to wait a minute after class.

I did, and they spent that minute staring at me in critical silence, eyes narrowed.

Patiently, I kept still and didn't fidget. I was familiar with the 'silent pressure' scare tactic. I didn't use it much myself, preferring the gentler 'inviting expectation' form of nonverbal coaxing, but some of my colleagues swore by it for the more tenacious troublemakers.

Finally, they spoke up, having assumed a fist-under-chin and hand-supporting-elbow lean on the lectern. "You were unexpectedly attentive during class today. Lots of questions, volunteering answers, rising to debate. Odd questions, though. … _Basic_ questions, really. But you were genuinely trying to listen to the lectures and take notes, and you thought up some interesting points for the guided discussion. And let's not forget the whole wardrobe change or the nice lack of classroom disruption between you and your brother. … What's your deal, brat A?"

I sighed, a little tired of this pretense. "I'm just trying to be more mature and learn more about my surroundings," I answered firmly with a slightly helpless shrug, in what was probably my most concise and, correspondingly, truthful explanation given for that so far.

Their idly curious expression didn't shift. But refreshingly - after the maids' fear and Belphegor's distrust and even the parents' obliviousness - they seemed to accept my words at face value.

"Uh-huh," they drawled evenly, neither audibly skeptic or understanding. An eyebrow - the same eyebrow as the beginning of general class - arched. "Well, okay. Just… keep up the work, brat A. Who knows; surprise me, and maybe you'll be upgraded to 'kid.' Kids get book borrowing rights, you know."

Was that a sense of humor I spotted? Maybe my pleased surprise (at both the compliment and a nicer side of the teacher) showed too much, because a beat later they arched their other eyebrow and nodded towards the door.

"Well? Class is over, I am no longer on duty. Get out. It's your free time and I'm bored and I can't leave until you do. Contractual obligations. Go bother somebody else."

I ducked my head down in obedience, feeling that pleased surprise curl around my chest in supportive warmth, and then left the room.

.

.

That warmth had faded by the time I had made it down the staircase.

I stood at the bottom, in front of the first steps, and rocked on my heels, considering.

I wanted to sigh again. I was tired, of more than just constantly giving that explanation in varying forms and trying to justify my change from 'Rasiel' to, apparently, 'decent human being'. I was feeling unusually annoyed at Rasiel, for someone I've never met but who had still managed to make my life more difficult.

… My life that used to be his life. Before I took it, unknowingly and unwillingly but all the same.

The annoyance melted into more charitable thoughts. We were both victims of this- whatever this was. It was unfair blaming him for anything. I just had to make the best of what I could with what I had.

I tilted my head back and watched the refraction of light from the windowpanes - it was bright enough in this hallway for the torches to have been left empty - play shadows over the tapestries.

They all seemed to lack the plaques I was used to in museum castles, and all seemed to feature different versions of bored-looking monarchs lounging indolently on thrones. Every ancestor depicted had blonde hair of some shade and red eyes of some tint, and most had a weaselly-looking animal I identified as a mink poking out of somewhere in their portraits. Was the mink the family animal or something? I was pretty sure that noble houses had those: family animals, that was.

Belphegor was probably outside, but… well, he also probably didn't want me there, too.

And, reluctantly but dutifully, I confronted another truth my brain presented me: I just didn't feel up being there with him, either.

Actually, even though it was kind of early to be thinking about this, I just didn't feel up to handling a family dinner tonight, either. I know it would help my objectives of tweaking family dynamics and treating Belphegor better and cementing my image as someone determined to change, like I knew I could achieve _something_ if I mustered up my reserves of backbone and went out there to _try_ , _try again_ , but I just…

I just didn't feel up to another dose of smothering yet somehow ignorant parental affection, while juggling whatever sabotage Belphegor was definitely going to prepare. _Had_ definitely _already_ prepared, like that bar of soap? That line of his about expecting me at dinner had been ominous as f- fridge.

Self-censorship and discipline for the win, yay.

… fridge. Kitchen.

I perked up slightly.

 _Word_ association for the win, _yay_.

The idea that had occurred to me was an appealing one. I disliked this constant sense of being lost in a place I was expected to not be, I had time to kill before dinner, I wanted to learn more about my surroundings and also give new-and-reformed Rasiel some much needed exposure, I intended to avoid Belphegor and any family scene for the rest of the day, I still needed a way to get dinner, and, oh, yes - judging by the sharp sting in my eyes from earlier by the window, I would be blind and in pain outside without something to shade them, anyway.

And blind and in pain was not a good mindset (or physical condition) to be in when attempting more reconciliation with someone who'd already tried to mur- assassinate me once before, and had made it clear their doubt of said reconciliation. Once that I _knew_ of; who knows how many tries Rasiel had already lived through before, well, _I_ was living through one?

So it was decided!

Feeling a little self-conscious about it, but not about to let that stop me, I clapped my hands in the satisfied glee of a well-formed plan of action. Thinker and follower and - when my contracts stipulated - a gently firm guider was I. Structure and organization was comforting.

The obvious solution to all my- okay, _some_ of my problems: Waste time until dinner exploring the castle for a mental map, start forming connections with the people I came across, and then locate the kitchens to endear myself and snag my dinner, before going to the king's study to take him up on that offer of indulging my questions.

Oh, did _I_ have _questions_ I wanted _indulged_.

And all that came with convenient side-effect of keeping me productively busy indoors, and thus not at immediate risk of coming in contact with Belphegor - who I badly needed recharging away from.

Unless he came inside.

Which he would, possibly before dinner.

But in that case, I just had to keep an eye and ear (and nearby hiding space) out for him, and maybe take refuge in the kitchen early to stay out of his way. Belphegor didn't strike me as the kind of kid who would be familiar with the kitchen staff. Or any staff, if he terrorized them like Rasiel had.

I mean, with free time like this, I might as well get introduced and start familiarizing _myself_ with the kitchen staff. I was hopeful that constant exposure to a benign Rasiel would soon inure them to my presence and cure them of any lingering associated trauma. I was also hopeful that improving my reputation there would have an expanding effect on the rest of the household, since everyone went through the kitchens. And more crudely, what went through the kitchens went through everyone.

I was _craving_ positively reinforcing relationships. Almost as much as I was craving a nice juicy piece of nature's-candy fruit.

Time to kill several birds with one stone. Several minks with one shot, maybe?

No, that was probably animal cruelty.

I looked at the hallways available to me from the foot of the stairs, heard the rustle of fabric distantly above me, and quickly picked the one I _didn't_ know where it lead to to delve it, before the teacher came down and demanded with another eyebrow arch to know _what_ was I doing _now_ , hanging around like a _loiterer_ , brat A?

Exploration ho! seemed… appropriate.

* * *

 _ **#**_

#

 _ **Do you know someone like Teacher? Is Teacher secretly your soul animal? Are**_ _ **you**_ _**Teacher?**_

 _ **Two-sentence omake: Belphegor once tried to throw a smuggled fork at Teacher for speaking disrespectfully. Teacher blocked it with a piece of chalk, which snapped, and then simultaneously carried on writing with that piece of chalk while also silently staring Belphegor down.**_

 _ **I'll leave it to your (morbid) imagination what Belphegor was actually poking at, if that bird was really simply frightened by his movement and nothing else, and what (or who) Belphegor was pelting with pebbles. RaCel chooses to believe the best of him, probably against their better judgement.**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **[Profile: Chapter Eight**_

 _ **Name: Rasiel of the Red Storm**_

 _ **Nationality: Kingdom of Storms; The Kingdom; The [Classified] Kingdom …?**_

 _ **Language(s): English; Mandarin; Spanish; …?**_

 _ **Nickname(s): Siel; Angel Child; Razzy; Si/{C}; Brat A; …?**_

 _ **Likes: Preparedness; Milk; Positivity; …?**_

 _ **Dislikes: Futility; Being Lost Physically; Being Lost Metaphorically; …?**_

 _ **Notes: - Default tone is calm and calming. Is not always aware of how this can be taken.**_

 _ **\- Staff nervously distrusts them. Teacher openly distrusts them, but has an open mind.**_

 _ **\- Good memory.**_

 _ **\- Ambidextrous (?).**_

 _ **\- Neat, narrow, print-like handwriting.**_

 _ **\- …?]**_

 _ **.**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _I felt uncomfortable eavesdropping, but I felt even more uncomfortable interrupting and having them question anyway how much I'd potentially heard._

 _And I needed- no,_ _wanted_ _information. (It was occasionally important, I felt, to define the differences between what I thought I needed but was instead just what I really wanted. Committing eavesdropping and providing a justification for it was one of those occasions to practice self-awareness.)_


	9. day one (kitchen listen)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

.

.

.

/ / _Age: 4_

.

The stone castle was, surprisingly or not, quite sprawling. Neatly kept, too, with a gorgeously white-washed (painted?) exterior, which I noticed when I looked out a window every now and then to keep track of Belphegor's general whereabouts (a.k.a., safely outside or dangerously inside), shading my eyes with a hand.

Still, with a generous allotment of time, a patient tread that occasionally doubled back if needed, and a good memory for, not to mention a healthy dose of determination, I finished mentally mapping out a rough figure of the castle. No more awkwardly asking for directions in a place I had to pretend I've lived in since birth! Or, so I hoped.

Such as it was, I also hoped that consciously hoping such didn't jinx it.

This, of course, still wasn't a foolproof method of orienting myself. I could only label locations as I knew of them, and few places had actual signs naming them.

Places like the king and queen's bedroom, I had to find out by being deferentially told by guards at the foot of the largest tower that their majesties were still presiding over a resupply appeals session in the throne room. The throne room? Behind that big set of ornate doors with a long, long, long line of people (dressed in both house services uniforms, and in what looked like plain generic citizens' clothes with the occasional spot of bright color or better quality or modern manufacturing).

I almost stopped to introduce new-and-reformed Rasiel to them, as well as subtly interrogate them for clues about the kingdom, but I was on a mission. Also, they all seemed pretty preoccupied mumbling intensely to themselves or gossiping with line-mates or dully staring into space and daydreaming. Many had sat down, and some had brought refreshments to pass around. None of them looked like they were even considering leaving the line, though.

(However, I _did_ stop to introduce new-and-reformed Rasiel to every staff member who didn't look busy enough for me to feel bad about hailing them down to politely force introductions and name-gather. I had a better memory for names and faces than I did for spatial positioning, and I wasn't being arrogant when I thought I had a good memory about that.)

Belphegor's bedroom was at the top of the tower directly a hallway to the left of mine. I was very relieved to remember, after a moment of frantic recollection, that the window in my room were open to the right. I marked it down as his, due to the maid weeping on the floor of the _messiest_ room I had _ever_ seen, and I'd seen some fairly messy rooms. In most cases, I'd overseen the clean-up of them, too - whether it be from the wards of clients or just careless friends - but I did not envy, and could easily sympathize, with the maid being brought to tears by this particular case. It was quite clearly a child's room, too: the strewn-about toys, dirty clothes, food crumbs, and mystifying dark carpet stains attested somberly to that.

… I did not try to enter the room. In fact, I highlighted it in my memory in blazing 'avoid-it' _Fire_ red, and then kindly descended back down the stairs on careful soft steps, before the maid looked up from her sob-scrubbing and grew mortified at having gained an observer from the half-open door.

I hadn't forgotten; I was _definitely_ going to be asking about the Fire in the king's office tonight. The king's office, which I also highlighted as a location of note relatively nearby his shared spousal living quarters. Helpfully, it had a sign on stiff cardstock pinned to the heavy-looking door.

Two locations were also highlighted as being of note. The area, of the out-back buildings whose usage was generally for laundry and staff rooms and other such things, which I suspected to be the kitchens (although likely not where the bulk of the food was stored). And a small room, unlocked, dusty, and tucked out of the way in a side-corridor, which had a similar cardstock sign of 'royal library'.

Indeed, when I peered in for a quick glance, there were certainly bookshelves with what _looked_ very much like books, but the sheer _size_ \- the _lack_ of it, I mean to clarify - would have gotten me interested in it for the dissonance of expectation, even if I wasn't already deeply personally invested in said discovery for investigation purposes. I set my heart on making a trip before I slept tonight in that absolutely will-crushingly cushy canopy bed of Rasiel's.

I lost sight of Belphegor near the end of my trek, though. This, coupled with a squint at the sun's position and a mental guesstimate of maybe an hour, and hour and a half having been whiled away in exploration, resolved me to return to the hallway that harbored the sounds of clanging cookery.

 _._

 _._

I heard more than just clanging cookery when I returned to the vicinity.

A sneaky glance, around the last corner before I came into direct view of the kitchen's open door, revealed that there were currently only two inhabitants.

An large adult, at least middle aged, stood in a slightly stained, worn-looking apron, and rolled-up sleeves - the arms sprouting from which were leisurely engaged in stirring a big pot in front of them. A cook, or chef. I _think_ the latter was distinctive by being more skilled? Greying wheat-blonde hair pulled back into a bun, and reddish-brown eyes. Russet?

By their side, a younger kitchen worker leaned against the counter of the stove. Their apron was cleaner and noticeably neater. In one hand rested a knife, and in the other, a half-cut potato. A wooden cutting board would a pile of potato cubes laid in front of them. An apprentice, maybe. Shinier honey-blonde hair, short and feathery. Glasses that didn't sit quite right in front of brownish-red eyes. Copper?

Neither were facing the door exactly, so I was safe to observe, _un_ observed back, at length. I wasn't an expert on placing time periods by their cookware, but the stoves, although old-fashioned, were definitely not medieval. Crouching and craning my neck, I _did_ spot a medieval firepit in the visible part of the room, however.

The extra sounds I'd heard over clanging cookery: they were in the middle of a heated conversation. I felt uncomfortable eavesdropping, but I felt even more uncomfortable interrupting and having them question anyway how much I'd potentially heard.

And I needed- no, _wanted_ information. (It was occasionally important, I felt, to define the differences between what I thought I needed but was instead just what I really wanted. Committing eavesdropping and providing a justification for it was one of those occasions to practice self-awareness.)

The older cook was complaining. "-Are all the other staff _still_ lined up for their audience? When are they getting back? They'd better not expect me to let them off for dinner."

The younger one was placating, with strained reason. "They finished their work early to do so. And you agreed to let them go until dinner, so let them wait and see. Since they _can_ , it's a shame to not let them use up their staff perk of two requests a month, rather than just the one. The king and queen will listen."

"Oh, it's all just _specialty_ items you need to request," they scoffed back. "You can live without them. They just make life a little easier. Or faster, or better."

"Oh, _really_ , well in that case," Droning sarcasm. Specifically, that of a successor generation verbally rolling their eyes at the stubborn foolishness of a generation more set in their ways. "What a waste, truly. Why bother with even _trying_ to requisition things that will make life a little easier or faster or better or, hey, overall more enjoyable, given the chance? It's a mystery we'll never solve, and more's the pity for that."

A warning scowl. "Don't _start_ with me, now. The royalty control _everything_ about specialty items. It's a _monopoly_ , plain and simple, and they're _obviously_ using it to keep us reliant on them for getting things we can't otherwise get."

"Yes, _because we can't otherwise get them_ ," the evident loyalist cried out, exasperated. "They _help_ us, by giving us all these wonderful devices and things for just being good citizens and paying our dues. Why are you so against royalty, anyway? I hear the same spiel from you every time, and let me tell you, it doesn't get more convincing with repetition."

"Just answer me this," the other fired back insistently. "If the old queen didn't like her food, would she have gotten these specialty 'lightning' lamps and fancy self-turning ceiling fans and these big luxury stoves put into the castle kitchens, instead of just restricting rare things like that to their personal quarters? Or what about all those metal _scrapers_ and _graters_ and special-use _knives_ , brought back over the years? Or the new king, with those very convenient freezing containers put into the food storage? And even then, it's all very _hush-hush_ with the entire staff sent out on enforced leave while who knows _what_ happens in here to get it all done and over with before us _commoners_ get allowed back in."

"It's electricity and refrigerators. You know the terminology, you learned it with the rest of us, don't try and pretend you don't. You've been calling the king 'new' for years now, too. He's not _new_ anymore." This was spoken with the tone of a tired argument. "And it's not the _entire_ staff sent out for when… renovations happen."

A sour face, now, before, dismissively, "Oh, _they_ don't really count. Most of _them_ are… nice enough once they get settled in, but… they're always _different_. You can just tell with a _look_ that they aren't… well, you know. … Although that certainly seems to be a _fetish_ for royalty, considering how they pair off every generation or so. Not _this_ one, this one was married-in all rightly kingdom-born, but remember the queen?"

Glasses, who seemed rather new, and, judging by their facial features, was possibly a close relative, looked scandalized. "You can't _say_ things like that! It's- they're- it's _royalty_ you're slandering!" was protested in a hiss.

The chef snorted dismissively, waving a ladle for emphasis. "So? A statistic trend is a fetish, I'm just calling it like I see it. It's not like most of everyone _else_ doesn't has _some_ hint of royal blood, too, given the time and options around here. It mingles. I've got it, you've got it, it's hard to find a citizen without _some_ trace of it. Does _that_ make _us_ all royalty?"

"Of course not! Stop joking around!" Glasses huffed indignantly. "It's all about the eyes, and _I_ know _you_ know it, Auntie! You told me yourself! 'We've got the blood, but we don't have the _blood_.' Blood's meaningless without the power, and if we were sensitive we wouldn't be stuck in the kitchens, would we?" they continued crossly, clearly dissatisfied with said lot in life.

Still eavesdropping not entirely shamelessly - it was not quite rude if they didn't know you were there, right, but only not _quite_ \- my brain mentally translated that 'sensitive' to {Sensitive}, uppercase signifier and all. I was learning more in this conversation than I had all day in the tower, really, and I wasn't even a part of it.

Their aunt rolled his eyes and turned back to idly stirring the contents of her pot. "And aren't I glad every day for _that_ , my _dear_ nephew, knowing what it'd be like _having_ the 'potential.' By the two, keep talking like that and I'll send you back to your father's to hack it out as a herder, see if I don't."

Two? 'By the {Two}' it was, then. Was that related to the Kingdom of Storms' faith? I tentatively assumed so for now, based on the format of swears throughout human development.

Said nephew sniffed disapprovingly, but, sufficiently cowed by the threat, returned to slicing and dicing the vegetables with a stiffness that gave away his unfamiliarity.

When a few more seconds passed with both of them seemingly content in the linguistic lull, I deemed it an appropriate time to make my entrance. First, I quietly backed up several steps around the corner again. Only then did I retrace the path the kitchen doors, making sure to place Rasiel's child-sized feet down with a deliberate weight that loudly thumped his shoes against the flagstones.

.

.

Both of the kitchen staffers left in the kitchen were already looking up when I finally stepped inside. My approach had been both noisy enough for them to anticipate, and for them to have no suspicions about my having overheard their earlier discussion.

The nephew looked terrified, with a hint of awe. His glasses twitched, as he tried to smile and bow and flinch backwards a few inches at the same time. The chef looked like a sandwich of 'concern' and 'wariness' pressed between two toasted slices of 'unimpressed.' She was darkly tanned and bulkily built; here was a woman who spent a lot of time either hauling around pounds of produce in the sun-baked gardens, or broiling in the thick steam clouds of cooking fires, and it showed.

"Crown Prince Rasiel," she greeted stiffly. "What matter has brought you to-" She paused, and eyed judgmentally my position across the threshold. "- _over_ the doorstep of our humble kitchens on this fair day? We are pleased to be of service to your royal highness, as ever." It was wrapped up with a forced scrunch of her lips that I chose to interpret as a grin rather than a grimace. Well. I chose to interpret it as her having _meant_ to grin rather than grimace, anyway.

Before I could answer and try to set her at ease with my presence, the nephew nervously chimed in, with the preemptive denial of those who _thought_ they harbored a guilty conscience about to be excavated.

"I- If this is a- about what Prince Belphegor ordered earlier about the fish dish for dinner, d- don't worry your royal highness, _we've already swapped out your serving for a meat alternative in considerationofyourfishallergysir!_ " he blurted out in one swift rush, panting for breath after her words ran into and starting tripping over each other at the end.

I blinked. Rasiel was allergic to fish? _And_ Belphegor had probably planned something around it for dinner, but I wasn't surprised at that. Honestly, I'd be more surprised if he _hadn't_ planned that out and _more_ , since his parting words had been too ominous to be taken otherwise.

But Rasiel was allergic to fish? What a pity. I had fond memories of fish. Tasty, versatile, and almost always healthy. Although I'd never developed an appreciation for sushi. I wanted to press further about what _types_ of fish I was suddenly allergic to, and how severe that allergic reaction _was_ , but I suspected if I delayed my answer to that heartfelt confession a second longer than it took to draw breath for it, then the trembling cook's apprentice _vibrating_ of tension before me was going to burst into hysterical tears out of self-induced faults.

It seemed a particularly unkind and cruel fate to bestow. Done in by one's own nerves. N- Not that I knew anything about that, okay!?

… It'd been _years_ since that last happened to me.

… _A_ year.

… Several months making up the better _half_ of a year, right? _Let's_ not think about it now. It'd just been a culmination of strange crowds and insufficient rest and missed appointments and unfulfilled expectancies, anyway.

"I didn't come for that, but thank you very much for telling me anyway, mister…?" I hastily placated, plastering on a sympathetic smile.

His eyes brightened at my acknowledgement. The wetness, thankfully, now seemed to be of a more positive cause for tears. "It's just-" he began earnestly.

The chef interrupted suspiciously, shouldering unsubtly in front of her nephew. "Why would the crown prince like to know the name of a lowly kitchen slave? … Your highness?"

 _This_ again.

* * *

 _ **#**_

#

 _ **The messy room is a canon fact, from Fuuta's rankings in the fanbook. Or so the wikia informs me. (Another wikia fact: Belphegor's favorite food is sushi.)**_

 _ **Exposition! Eavesdropping will not become a friend to RaCel in the future, though; they're a little too straightforward about asking for things. But what can you do about the Lawful Good?**_

 _ **RaCel's current attitude to Belphegor can be perfectly summed up thusly: When informed of an averted intention to poison them with fish, they were more concerned about their newfound allergy.**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **[Profile: Chapter Nine**_

 _ **Name: Rasiel of the Red Storm**_

 _ **Nationality: Kingdom of Storms; The [Classified] Kingdom …?**_

 _ **Likes: Positivity; Fish (-); Books; Useful Skills; ...?**_

 _ **Dislikes: Being Lost Physically; Being Lost Metaphorically; Sushi; ...?**_

 _ **Notes: - Default tone is calm and calming. Is not always aware of how this can be taken.**_

 _ **\- Staff nervously distrusts them. Teacher openly distrusts them, but has an open mind. (?)**_

 _ **\- Good memory.**_

 _ **\- Allergic to fish.**_

 _ **\- Was in the scouts'.**_

 _ **\- …?]**_

 _ **.**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

" _Right," she intoned, in chords that delicately suggested the speaker was only filtering out their dubiousness due to concerns of who would be hearing said words and what consequences said listeners might deign to visit upon said speaker in the future if said minds had changed said opinions._

 _It was a tone that said a lot for such a short syllable._


	10. day one (open door)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

.

.

.

/ / _Age: 4_

.

I inhaled deeply and put forth my strongest shine of sincerity, smile falling away. "I don't know if you've heard, but I've decided to embark on a journey of- I suppose you'd call it 'self-maturation.' I was a horrible terror before, and I'm sorry for that, I really am. I'm trying to go around and connect with - hopefully, well, befriending - the castle staff now, and that starts with getting to know everyone's names. And I'd be honored to learn this mister's name first out of the invaluable kitchen _workers._ "

I nodded at the apprentice.

He blushed.

 _She_ appeared distinctly doubtful - a reaction I was beginning to await with dread.

"Right," she intoned, in chords that delicately suggested the speaker was only filtering out their dubiousness due to concerns of who would be hearing said words and what consequences said listeners might deign to visit upon said speaker in the future with said minds had changed said opinions.

It was a tone that said a lot for such a short syllable.

"I _did_ hear something like that from a maid this morning," she admitted begrudgingly, even as she kept a cautious hawk's gaze on me. { _I heard it and didn't believe it_ }, came the helpful brain translation. I couldn't help but notice how she'd also positioned herself to block easy access to any blades lying around in the open. "… I wish you luck on your venture, then, Prince Rasiel, and I hope I'll be seeing your eyes uncovered for a long time to come." She pinned me with a meaningful look, the wariness rising to the top like ice cream in a float.

{ _We'll see if I can trust you once I've seen how seriously you actually intend to go through on this silly little 'vow of maturity' of yours}._

I accepted this with a grateful nod. "Thank you for giving me a chance, madam. That's all I ask for, really."

"Really?" she questioned dryly.

"Really," I affirmed with another nod and a tentative smile to test the waters.

The chef returned my smile crookedly, still radiating 'unimpressed' like phone towers radiated cell waves.

Defence lowered slightly. I had a little leeway, then. Might as well go for it and pounce on the opportunity to increase my [Reputation Points] while she was still softened by the initial attack.

"Actually…" I ducked my head a little with embarrassment, looking up from under my eyelashes. Time to put these 'child's charm point' expressive eyes to work. "I'm trying to keep busy and, well, avoid my brother for a few hours. He's… not as supportive of my 'venture.'"

Here I molded my features into a sheepish look. "And cooking is a very useful life skill to have. Do you think I could hang around for a bit and maybe pick up a few pointers? I know it's a whim on short notice, but I'd really appreciate it, madam."

I already had intermediate cooking skills in my memory: living alone encouraged self-sufficiency, and food was always a great tool for managing restless dependents. But that much was just paying attention to instructions. If I suddenly had the ability to learn a lot more with the time afforded by _being_ and the neural plasticity _of_ a child, you could bet I was going to try and take advantage of that to improve myself. Lots of people wanted to relive their lives once they got old enough to appreciate how much hindsight truly was 20/20; I was beginning to accept that I _was_ , just- a _different_ life than my own which was, now, _still_ my own.

(Even if the whole 'memories and maturity in a physical child's brain' thing was still confusing, it was a beneficial kind of confusing that I didn't question much, seeing as I had nobody to really question, anyway.)

She softened, uncrossing her solidly-corded arms. "'Madam', huh? You're a real _charmer_ now, aren't you? That's just 'Chef', even for a prince. And this here's Reg, just Reg. He's my nephew and an apprentice and right green one, too, but I think he's fit to teach a beginner, at least. I think we can accommodate a prince's whims for a few hours, at least until we fill up again for dinner," she fianlly conceded. "… And I'm sure my nephew will be _delighted_ to do so for _real_ royalty."

'Reg' - Reginald? - bobbed his head rapidly up and down, fear erased, and staring with starstruck eyes. If only it were that easy to erase the distrust in everyone else. Though, to be fair, by accounts he'd not been here long enough to interact with Rasiel, or even hear so many bad things about the princes that he believed in them over his personal first impression.

I hesitated.

With a little more embarrassment: "About that dinner thing …?"

Chef raised an eyebrow almost as archly as the teacher's - but not quite, since I couldn't think of anyone rivaling their prowess in brow-fu - before agreeing to let me eat my dinner in the kitchen with them a half hour before the dinner rush started around seven. She didn't seem too surprised at my one-word, repeated explanation of 'Belphegor.'

I'd worry about unjustly blackening his name if he didn't seem to have already blackened it at least as badly as Rasiel, and all by his own free will.

.

.

It was a little off-putting having Reg watch me as I ate my roast and vegetables; he marveled under his breath about how even the young royalty ate with such precise table manners, mostly resulting in me feeling self-consciously conflicted about my internal glow of pleasure at another piece of praise.

However, he made an excellent instructor in the cooking arts. Even if all we went over that day was beginner terminology and demonstrations that I already knew - a process much sped along by my 'innate' grasp on the mechanics after being shown just once - it was still re-energizing being in rightfully earned positive- neutral- neutrally positive (?) company again.

… And even if Chef banned me from even trying to go near any blades for at least another two eagerly-given Reg-seminars on instrument safety.

Not that I _tried_.

Rasiel might have been familiar, but I was not, or, at least, not beyond a practical cookery and survival use.

I'd been in the scouts, okay?

It was… mostly an informational and useful experience for a suburbs denizen, provided you got a leader who knew their stuff.

Much like any other school of education; even the semi-sarcastic school of hard knocks, because I have reliably understood 'life' to be the greatest teacher of all.

I left around 7:30-ish, when the kitchens got so crowded that I was becoming a nuisance underfoot, especially with how everyone but Chef and Reg tried to keep a yard away from me at all time.

This was _after_ they'd startled at my presence upon entering the large room, confusedly nodded along to Reg's bubbly intro-planation, and timidly surrendered their names. If the room, large though it was, wasn't also so packed with busy workers and open fires and cookware and cook _ing_ , I was fairly certain they'd have tried to keep much further than a yard away, and sated their wary distanced staring (and immediate embarrassed gaze-aversion once I looked at them) from there.

When dusk fell, I bid a cheerful farewell to the very welcoming cook's apprentice and the reluctantly warming chef, waved warmly to the trying-to-stare-without-being-called-out-on-it (or scolded for neglecting their duties) kitchen workers. I struck out again on a full stomach (and a small giftwrapped 'night nibbling' package of fresh fruit) for that roomful of books I'd found, consulting my rough envisioned 3-D diagram of the castle to find it again.

It was probably going to take some retracing of steps, but I was prepared, and not just with a fortifying supply of snacks.

Since I was skipping a formal dinner, there was still some time for me to skim through the royal library's rather shockingly small selection before I could go to the king's study 'after dinner'. Seeing what I could learn by myself would also give me more concrete parameters for what I should ask him directly. It would maximise the efficiency of gleaning answers, especially when considering that he'd be leaving tomorrow for this mysterious resupplying trip. The queen would be staying behind, but the impressions I'd gotten was that, as an outsider marrying into the royal family, she neither knew much or cared to learn any more about the cryptic traditions and 'bloodline' kept by them.

Although I had _questions_ about that whole exchange I overheard on the topic of what it meant to be royalty in this kingdom and how exactly royal blood was defined.

(I still wasn't convinced, by the way, that that small roomful of books I'd seen had been all there was to it. Maybe there was a locked, limited access trove somewhere? Another question to pose later.)

I think some of that intensity might have bled over into the polite smiles I handed out to every staffer I passed in the halls on my way, or maybe the flickering torchlight was just bad for Rasiel's features, because they all seemed to flinch a little harder than the maids had when I'd smiled at _them_. Politely asking for a guard to inform my waiting family that I'd be taking dinner alone tonight worked like a charm, though: They eagerly seized on my request to carry a message for an excuse to leave my presence.

It was both gratifying and disheartening, watching them scurry off to the dining hall. But less so than I might have usually felt at my overtures of affability being rebuffed.

I was focused on _other_ things.

It itched at me to be ignorant. I was _unfamiliar_ with 'ignorant'. Though I had always strived to follow the mantra of 'make friends, not enemies', I could firmly say that 'ignorant' and I were those two next-door neighbors engaged in a decades-long conflict of passive-aggressive friendliness, where a suitably nuanced smile was as good as a knife in the back.

Now _passive-aggressive_ , I think I could learn to fraternize with rather cozily, given sufficient motivation.

Regardless, I had a mystery - _many_ mysteries - on my hands, and I intended to solve it _sooner_ than _later_.

I pulled open the somewhat dusty door, and was promptly greeted with a swirl of stale air, and just the faintest trace of dim illumination from the last bits of sun poking over the horizon.

I pulled out the pack of matches I'd borrowed from the puppy-ish apprentice with the promise to refund, ready for searching out and setting up the clearly infrequently used candles. In this light, it meant groping around half-blind and half-hoping not to trip over anything sharp.

Good thing I wasn't afraid of the dark. And also that I'd learned in the scouts' how to properly strike a match without hurting myself.

 _Hsst!_

.

.

Candles fully lit, the wholly visible visual of the room was revealed. I returned to the entrance before taking it all in in a slow, 180-degrees sweep.

At the right: an empty fireplace; a large mirror along with a frozen plastic analog clock over the mantle; a wash basin and handcloth on the mantle; a full woodrack; and two cushioned armchairs facing each other.

In the middle: a desk facing the door; a wooden upholstered chair behind it; a window behind _that_ ; stocks of blank important-feeling paper and capped inkwells with disused fountain pens the only things found within the openable drawers; and a very sturdily locked drawer hidden under the whole thing.

To the left: three long rows of bookshelves at about adult height; shelves of books and files and bundles of written paper _in_ said bookshelves; two shorter display cabinets lined up against each wall, consisting of miscellaneous exhibits that ranged wildly from rat poison to carved shell animals to polished _human_ skulls to taxidermied hunting trophies (or beloved pets) to colored glass marbles, with faded labels to point out each ruler's contribution(s); and a clean, ornate silvery ashtray on top of the entrance-sided wall-cabinet.

To the _far_ left: an untitled, windowless door, just as sturdily locked.

I backtracked into the corridor to confirm that whatever lay beyond it, there wasn't a hallway shortcut for it. A niggling suspicion lead me to also confirm that the lock on the door and the lock on the hidden drawer looked identical, at least, identical to an untrained eye already more used to technological locks.

And the plain waxy candles, in varying states of melt, were positioned with their metal (cast iron? I wasn't a metal expert, either) candle-holders all over the room, in varying states of reach. There were at least twenty of them lit - the ones I'd managed to get to with the liberal aid of the desk's chair and my own nimble clambering, despite my height disadvantage - and my lungs were already wheezing in anticipation of what it would take to put all of them out after I was done.

Surveyed all together, the room was much bigger than the study tower classroom - and thus my own luxurious bedroom - but still smaller than my expectations. Perhaps that was my fault for subconscious comparisons to modern giants of literature storage, but more likely it was just a sad, pathetic library. Past clients had had libraries larger than this one, and none of them had been royalty. Albeit, the dustiness was rather the same.

Then again, they also had had larger meal spreads than this one, so maybe it was also a library on a diet?

… That didn't make much sense at first thought, and it took a moment for me to decipher the insidious insinuations of my own brain. Information control, right. The things said in class and in that shamefully eavesdropped conversation had been subtly tugging me in that direction all day.

Although, that eavesdropping had given me another useful tidbit; by the looks of all the candles, the royal library either wasn't used enough by the royal family to have been wired into whatever selective electricity generator was running the electric lights for the kitchens, or it wasn't considered exclusive access enough to qualify for the electric lighting options of royalty's 'private quarters'.

I concluded it was both. And I had a different conclusion about that locked door. I was more certain on my 'royal library-private archives' distinction now, even if I wasn't _entirely_ certain yet. Another question for the king, in…?

Oh, yes, the clock was still frozen, wasn't it.

I just had to hurry it up then.

I set my lips into a firm frown, nodded decisively, and beelined for the closest bookshelf to start scanning through its offerings and cataloging what I found.

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 _ **In answer to a review, and also expounding on a past author's note: yes, there'll be a timeskip over the next mini-arc. 'Day One' was just one day at roughly age 4 ½, but 'Mystery Deepens' will cover roughly 4 ½ to 5 ½. The arc after that is filler/lore, but the arc after that one will cover roughly 5 ½ to 6. Next arc is 6 to 7, and the last arc of the Kingdom story arc is 7 to 8. I suppose it's still somewhat of a slow burn, but I'm going to try by best to get the entire Kingdom arc done and posted before school starts again for me, so it's not that long of wait until the denouement of, well… you'll see, won't you?**_

 _ **Updates keep lagging and showing updates a day later, so it looks like I haven't updated? But rest assured I will update daily until the end of this arc. Thank you to everyone who keeps reviewing, though, especially the every-chapter reviewers! They are my lifeblood, and you, my… drug shots?**_

 _ **Er… d- don't do drugs, kids. (But please do review! Even if you're an accustomed lurker and/or have nothing you can think of to say, just anything is still a very pleasant surprise!)**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **[Profile: Chapter Ten**_

 _ **Name: Rasiel of the Red Storm**_

 _ **Nationality: Kingdom of Storms; The [Classified] Kingdom …?**_

 _ **Likes: Positivity; Books; Useful Skills; ...?**_

 _ **Dislikes: Being Lost Physically; Being Lost Metaphorically; Sushi; ...?**_

 _ **Notes: - Staff nervously distrusts them. Teacher openly distrusts them, but has an open mind. Chef is begrudgingly reserving judgement. Reg is admiring.**_

 _ **\- Good memory.**_

 _ **\- Allergic to fish.**_

 _ **\- Was in the scouts'.**_

 _ **\- …?]**_

 _ **.**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _The ones way left, slim and rough-hewn, appeared to be at the end of their natural lives; they might actually fall apart if I touched them, or even breathed too hard in their direction. Reverence for the sanctity of the written word kept me close to the far right, where several fat tomes huddled together in color-coded sections that grudgingly gave way to its neighbors._


	11. day one (library reads)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

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/ / _Age: 4_

.

The first shelf was simply filled by journals of who seemed to be past rulers: mostly King Y the [Adjective], but there were, interspersed, a smattering of Queen X the [Adjective] as well. Every single first entry started with Y1 of [Name], and included a line or two about finally being elevated from heir apparent to heir confirmed. I wasn't aware of a title like that (or any calendar system quite so egotistic and unhelpful), and put it down as a 'Kingdom' thing.

Not all were titled neatly by volume number, and very few had any numerical indication of reigning generation, but as the shelves progressed, left to right, so did the diaries in age. I could visibly see the yellowing and wear and tear on leather bindings transition to better quality pages and newer-looking hardcovers. It was possible to track the passage of… maybe centuries, just by the books.

The ones way left, slim and rough-hewn, appeared to be at the end of their natural lives; they might actually fall apart if I touched them, or even breathed too hard in their direction. Reverence for the sanctity of the written word kept me close to the far right, where several fat tomes huddled together in color-coded sections that grudgingly gave way to its neighbors.

As these were those two-sided bookshelves, the count of age progression seemed to work like it wrapped around top to bottom to top to bottom again on the other wide. So 'column' A - those vertical divisions - facing the window, would fill up left-to-right, and then flip around to 'column' B, facing the entrance, and fill up left-to-right, before flipping back around to 'column' C, window-side to the right of A. A little confusing at first, but easy enough once I figured out a pattern.

Helpfully, I supposed that as the generations went on (I hesitated to say 'modernized', exactly, not without more evidence) literacy had improved, and with it, the insatiable human vanity that urged bored monarchs (if the tapestries were any indication) to diligently record their personal thoughts with the delusion that anyone else would find them as interesting as the original did.

And, apparently, the appeal of color-coding by… personal colors? They were all shades of red - the ones that I could easily pick out as being part of the same author's series, anyway. Maybe they were each separated by eye color? And I guess that one block of books with split-cover shading had had a heterochromatic royal possessor.

Or maybe the red was just a Red Storm thing. (It was still a struggle to take that name seriously, but I persevered bravely.)

There was also still some room left bare on the rightmost shelves. I assume it was for the works of Rasiel's father… and eventually, Rasiel. And… 'his' children?

I became a little queasy at that. Yeah, 'Rasiel' wasn't going to be having children for as long as I remained here and, well, remained 'him'. It didn't look like they had the science or technology for test tube babies yet, either. I'd leave the theoretical matter of heirs to Belphegor, I supposed, and if he wasn't interested, then… whoever else was next? Regardless, that was a thought for the far, _far_ future, as of yet undecided. Who said I even _wanted_ to be king?

I wasn't sure about leaving - it was far too early to tell, not without knowing my options of where I'd go, and The Kingdom didn't seem bad, just… weird - but being a ruler of even a _small_ kingdom was a _lot_ of responsibility. (A larger one would definitely have had more staff around the place, and something like an open audience where everyone could be sure of being heard was unthinkable in logistics.)

I could handle little responsibilities; I liked them, even. But that was _because_ I knew I could handle them. A big responsibility like ruling a kingdom in what appeared to be an absolute monarchy without lesser branches of government delegating… That was more intimidating than the thought of biologically producing heirs.

Shaking my head, I shelved - hah, pun - that away under 'far, _far_ future thoughts' as well. I also added 'ask about any family relations' to my list of 'questions to ask the king', right under 'ask about what Cook and Reg had meant with the distinction between royal blood, royalty, and Sensitivity without incriminating Cook and Reg'.

For now, once I'd satisfied my categorization of 'rulers' journals' for the first shelf, I moved on to the next.

.

.

It was almost bursting with past files on the kingdom affairs. Unlike the journal shelf, this one had no spare space at all. Centimeter to centimeter of width, they were stuffed and crammed and squeezed and jammed. They were also organized, handily, by date, running left-to-right. Oldest had crackling bundles of ancient paper, held together by frayed pieces of string, their ink having lightened over the many years into a softer shade of tan on a brown-yellow background. Newest had manila folders penned with the time range contained within and the topics involved, and… typed characters?

I resolved to keep an eye out for a typewriter around the place, probably a 'specialty' item. Holding out for a computer was likely pushing my hopes. Luck had nothing to do with it, but I couldn't even bring myself to imagine 'working computer and printer' and 'castle where electricity is seen as a luxury' together.

These, I wasn't worried about breaking if I touched them. The worst of the metaphorically arthritic files rustled menacingly at a brush of a finger, but seemed, overall, to be of a hardier breed of paper than the really old journals. And the _best_ of the metaphorically spry files were neat enough to pass muster in a government office, at least if nobody actually read the contents. If only in one that didn't turn up its nose at the sight of typewritten work in this day (26th of July, thank you, classroom blackboard) and age (some time after [eraser marks] - Y38 of Ruth, according to the heading on the last entry of the most recent journal, who I took to be the grandmother and late queen mentioned by the king and Cook).

So yes, with these, I was more worried about the words having eroded away from exposure too badly for me to read them; they lacked the protection, however ultimately temporary and degraded, of covers. Ostensibly, with how packed they were, the sides of each page could serve as coverings for its neighbors, but the files suffered from more crackly bits than the journals. They didn't stand as neatly: tips and corners of pages poked out into the open air and light, even in the manila folders. Clearly it wasn't a habit of this family to study up proper preservation of works, or even of careful storage techniques.

It was a nightmare of categorization, too. Nothing was grouped together, and it was only generally by time. Maps were occasionally next to quarterly reports of harvests, which were sometimes between tax reform proposals, which could technically be found slipped into memorable write-in letters from the citizens to the castle, which wandered around to employment records for paid wages - paid not in money, but in food, lodgings, uniform, and an extra 'specialty' request monthly.

Actually, there wasn't a single mention of a monetary denomination for The Kingdom in all of the pages I picked at random to flip through. The closest hint I found of it was the mention in one tax reform report of metal coins being taken on an equivalent sliding scale to livestock, placed in a spot to the middle-right of the shelf: recent-ish, but not very.

In the end, I just left it as 'kingdom affairs' and went for the last bookshelf.

.

.

Half of it, more or less, was just spillover from 'kingdom affairs'. The other half was a little more tentatively promising, being entirely of citizens' marriage, birth, adoption, employment/trade, and death records since Y2 of Boaz II. It took some rifling through the 'royal journals' shelf, but I eventually backtracked this to be the ruler four generations back.

(Counting from the front was unreliable, since I didn't know how many [if any] of the really ancient rulers' memoirs had deteriorated to the point of being trashed, or had never been written at all, or were otherwise lacking a position in the sketchy timeline offered by the progressive 'columns'.

Actually, this concern applied to every generation, and the perturbation of this thought drove me to read through the first few pages of every Y1 text in the past three generations [which actually worked out to be the Y1 pages of the second and third generation back, and then the last pages of the second generation back since the first generation back was still in the hands of the king; it seemed that the journals weren't collected until their author's decease] to confirm that the succession order that gone Boaz II - Reinhard - Ruth - Basile.

Oh, and I also learned that Basile was Ruth's only surviving son and the name of Rasiel's father, who'd I'd just kind of been referring to as 'the king' this entire time. I resolved to figure out the queen's name before I slept; it was the least I owed her as the bodysnatcher of her much adored progeny.)

I dubbed it the 'citizen records'. They were the best organized by far, if you considered how scattered actual valuable and confirmable information would be in the journals, and just how plain scattered the files were. I happily looked forward to rectifying my blanks of knowledge soon, and hopefully before I had to ask to ask too many 'dumb' questions as Rasiel in the future.

Teachers will always tell you there are no dumb questions, but tutors are at a little more liberty to disclose this stunning disputement: there are. And those are the questions which everybody else seems to know the answer to, and you only don't because you haven't bothered to Google it in your free time before asking a trained professional whose time is literally your money (or more often, your parents' money).

I didn't have Google (and I sadly mourned this for a brief moment) but at least now I had a much shabbier and limited and primitive print edition of it!

… It was better than just blatantly begging somebody to question if I'd gotten amnesia with that personality whiplash. Both were true, but whereas I could explain away the latter as a result of the 'awakened bloodline' (that was still bugging me), I couldn't really do the same for the former.

Of course, there was the issue of credibility: just because it was written down, didn't mean it was objectively true, even if I was heavily inclined and predisposed to trusting so anyway. This was especially important for the personal journals, undoubtedly chock-full of subtle (or not-so-subtle) biases, and I would keep it in mind when I went through them. Still, it was a minor treasure trove in terms of giving me something to work with; at least, when compared to basically everything else so far, except an eavesdropped conversation.

That might not hold true after my office appointment with the king, but these books would remain a good find: one that I was glad to have found.

The wall clock's frozen state hadn't changed, nor had I expected it to. I'd probably have been reasonably justified in any fear if it _had_ changed in the time I was in the room, entirely (to my knowledge) alone.

A basic understanding of how time progression worked, however, served well to inform me that it'd been quite long enough since I'd first arrived, and it was about time I scurried over to the king - Basile's - office. My biological clock, alarmingly, forced out a yawn of agreement.

With no satchel, the most my tiny hands could carry without losing hold of my care package was two journals. Deciding to work chronologically, I selected the leftmost two journals to be kept on my bedside tables for nights when I was less tired than today, and made a quick trip to my bedroom tower to drop it all off before zeroing in on mentally-highlighted location of the office.

Yawns would not defeat me after I'd already endured so much in this quest, no matter how inviting that bed had seemed once in sight.

I politely knocked on the heavy-looking, sign-pinned door.

After a pause, in which I realized, again, how little force this body had behind it, I knocked with much more vigor.

A muffled, genial laugh from behind the door. Faint footsteps.

"I heard you the first time, Razzy dear," the k- King Basile called. "Wait a second, please; I'll get the door for you."

I stepped back obediently. The door swung inwards. Rasiel's father beamed kindly down at me, before ushering me in, and directing me to take a seat (thoughtfully elevated with a stack of books - more dictionaries) in front of a large, imposing oaken desk.

It was maybe an odd detail to notice, but I noticed it all the more for it, and I _had_ resolved to keep an eye out for it not too long ago: there was a typewriter with a half-typed piece of paper on the floor, poking out from the shielding frame of the desk, and I was irresistibly drawn to thinking up a little pet theory about what might have happened during that pause.

"And how has your day been, my heir?" he questioned pleasantly, retaking his own seat behind his desk, and shuffling a stack of papers.

I took a breath. I'd need it.

.

.

"Sounds like you've had a busy day," King Basile nodded along sympathetically.

A recounting of my tale hadn't actually taken that long, once I'd cut out all the internal commentary and dramatized references that wouldn't be understandable from 4-year-old Rasiel. None of my eloquence gave him pause, though; life as a father to genius twins must prepare one to be pretty unfazed.

I displayed that eloquence in my one-shouldered shrug of reply. My mouth was occupied drinking the glass of milk that he'd apparently ordered delivered for my arrival. It was still pretty thirsty work detailing one's entire day, okay? When I was asked, I delivered. And I liked detail.

"Ms. Slater is very knowledgeable - we wouldn't be hiring just anyone to be the royal tutor, you know. You can depend on her guidance. And how was the library? I haven't been in ages. Dusty as always, I suspect, and likely quite boring for a child your age," he added knowingly, before giving a sigh. "It's a pity, but there are rules to the royal library. Fiction, unfortunately, is not welcome; though I can always requisition some if you wish?"

Finally, [Teacher ID] received!

I remembered to reply. "No, that's fine, I'm not looking into fiction right now, but thank you. And well… yes. Pretty much. But I'm planning on spending more time there in the future, so I'll probably ask someone to help clean up the dust?"

I kind of trailed off into a lilting question. Belatedly, the intimidation of talking to actual royalty (as far as I knew) was striking me, now that I had no insulating explanations to shield my confidence. Also, I was hazy on how much authority I commanded as a royal child, and if I should really be using that authority when it was entirely possible for me to clean up some myself, or just live with the dust. It wasn't… _that_ bad. And Rasiel had no _dust_ allergy that I knew of, which was refreshing after another lifetime of stuffy noses and shivery sneezes.

Oblivious to my thoughts, the king advised approvingly, "Good plan! It's too early yet, but when it starts getting cold again, remember to tell a maid to keep the fireplace stoked if you stay late."

I agreed mutely with a dip of my head, demonstrating more of said eloquence. The emptied glass was set down with a _clink_ , and King Basile cleared it away. He then steeples his hands and leaned forward, expression the epitome of paternal concern.

"Thank you for humoring a proud father's questions, but I expect you have several of your own to pose? I hope you haven't tried calling up the fire by yourself since last night. I know it can be tempting, but it's dangerous without proper supervision, and when you consider how _early_ you awakened the bloodline…"

He shrugged helplessly. It was an odd look on a man of his position, but he pulled it off well.

Well, _that_ was a leading question, if I'd ever heard one.

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 _ **Two more chapters ('small talk' and 'good night') until the end of the mini-arc!**_ _ **Finally**_ _ **, am I right? Sorry about how dragged out this one day might feel, but 'Day One' provides a lot of set-up for the rest of the story arc, which in turn sets up for RaCel's entire understanding of the KHR world. The timeskips should help things speed along after this.**_

 _ **To everyone who reviewed: *digital hug + double handshake**_ ❤ _ *****_

 _ **I've settled on names for the king and queen. Yes, I literally named him King 'King'. Why? Because I could. (It will also make for a throwaway line when CEDEF Basil is mentioned in the far, far future.) You can probably guess what the queen's name is going to be like.**_

 _ **Next chapter: it's time for the Talk. No, not that Talk. The other one.**_

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 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

" _Ah, you noticed that? Yes, there are others. But they aren't relevant to you for a long while yet. Don't worry about it!"_

 _Well, with an answer like that, how could I not? It felt like a premonition of many similar evasive replies to come._


	12. day one (small talk)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

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/ / _Age: 4_

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I… hadn't even thought of trying to reignite that unnatural Fire again. Where would I even start? Better to ask somebody who knows: i.e., the person I was due to meet in a few hours, i.e., him.

I confessed as much.

"Good, good." Until I'd met the king, I had always thought that it required a certain rotund body shape to produce the proper pitch for sounding 'jolly'. He proved this was not the case.

"There have been ancestors who in careless practice, overconfident after their first success, have disintegrated parts of themselves. Or parts of others," he modified, but didn't seem very concerned about. One of the typical and more _traditional_ attitudes of the rich to their employees, although times were certainly modernizing. But I suppose an absolute monarch could largely do as they wanted. "I'll walk you through some passive exercises to get you more in-tune with your flames when I return from the resupplying trip in about… oh, a week or two. I trust you can wait that long, my heir. Active lessons will have to wait until you're a little older and you've settled your flames a bit."

There was a slight emphasis he kept placing on 'flames', and for that matter, 'disintegration'. But not 'fire', at least not the way I thought of the phenomenon. Were those official titles? Accordingly, my brain saved them as {capitalized} versions of the words.

"About that," I interrupted. "Can you first _explain_ the Fire to me, father?"

Finally! I allowed myself a mental pat on the back for smoothly tacking on the familial title without any of the slight pauses I'd stumbled over at breakfasts.

King Basile appeared taken back. "That's a big area to cover," he apologized sincerely. "Could you be more specific, and I'll answer that way?"

A back-and-forth, huh? It was a little odd being the interviewer and not the interviewee when the other party was behind the desk, but I did my best. First things first.

"What did you mean when you said awakening it was… proof of the royal blood, and the royal bloodline? And what does 'awakening' it mean exactly? "

He began, "You might not know this, but if we're talking just about genetics - ah, I don't think you're taught that," he muttered to himself, apparently feeling the need to clarify this one term, but not question any of my other vocabulary. I took it as a curriculum clue. "By 'genetics', I mean what's passed down and shared by blood relations. Anyway, most of the kingdom-born share a lot of intercrossing family lines, and although the survival rate of royal children has never been very good - and the production rate of them also slowed after monogamy and faithfulness started being practiced more strictly about eight or ten generations back - in the most technical sense almost everyone has some royal ancestry, which most obviously tends to manifest in the redness of their eyes. Raynell - your mother - is probably a second or third cousin of some sort. And if we considered marriage links, we'd never get anywhere. But of course blood alone - even setting aside how diluted by time most of it is - does not make everyone royalty."

I tried to pretend like I hadn't already heard all of this from another source. (Well, not the technical incest part.) After a beat, I realized he was waiting encouragingly for me to chime in.

"Ah…" I frantically snatched a snippet of memory to repurpose, parroting, "It's about the {Sensitivity}, isn't it? And 'potential'?"

"Well done!" King Basile congratulated proudly. "Yes, the less obvious hallmark of royal blood, theorized by past royalty but not proven to be linked to the redness gene, is the light-sensitivity of one's eyes. Light-sensitivity, on the other hand, _is_ proven, without exception, to be linked to {Flame Sensitivity}, which is, in turn, linked without exception to {Flame Potential}. That being the potential for {Flame Activation}, of course - ah, I mean to say 'waking the fire'. So, in essence, the distinction between 'those with royal blood' and 'royalty' in The Kingdom is 'the ability to use {Flames}. It is what defines us as the ruling class."

"So when you say I've 'awoken the bloodline', you're just saying that I've… 'unlocked' these {Flames}? And 'calling up the fire' is just… 'activating' those {Flames}."

"Got it in one, Razzy! And not 'these' or 'those' {Flames}. _Your_ {Flames}. It helps to think of the power as your own."

My burning - hah - curiosity finally burned up my patience. "Why do you keep calling-"

I hesitated. It? No, them. No, _it._ What even was the _difference?_

"-it {Flames}? It can't be actual fire, it doesn't burn. It- {Disintegrates}, like you said. And it didn't hurt when I lit up my eyes." Now _there_ was a sentence I never thought I'd say.

"Naturally it isn't," King Basile denied immediately, blinking in astonishment. "Have you been thinking of Storm Flames as mundane fire? I'm afraid I've been misrepresenting the bloodline to you and your brother with all the vague 'fire' euphemisms, then. That is entirely my own fault for not speaking candidly on the matter to you two sooner, but I didn't prepare for it having come up this soon, and for that I apologize, having failed as a father." He seemed genuinely disappointed in himself. Either he was a very, very good faker, or that had been a _fast_ (and very dramatic) spiral.

I denied the allegation just as immediately, in an attempt to cut off the self-blame. "No, of course not! I knew from the start that it couldn't be actual fire, but I didn't have another point of comparison, so I've just been thinking of it as capital-F Fire." Perhaps stimulated by a sense of guilt, I overshared a little as an explanation poured out of me.

Then it registered, what he'd finally given me a name for. "Storm Flames?" I repeated.

The king smiled warmly, all signs of imagined remorse gone. (I wasn't certain myself if I meant 'imagined' as in he had overreacted, or 'imagined' as in he'd been joking and had played me like a fiddle.) "Flames of the Storm, yes. You may have noticed a certain theme, or, ah, _aesthetic_ -"

 _This,_ I was more certain was actually a joke, but it was hard to tell with someone who always seemed so sincere and serious about he said.

"-by now. Some ancient ancestor took on the Red Storm name and created the lasting lineage sigil in honor of our most revered family trait, and yes, the kingdom was most likely named after the same, at the whim of its ruler at the time."

I mulled this over in silence. He accommodatingly let me, still smiling.

"Only royalty has Flames?" I checked, stifling another yawn. It was getting a little harder to think as it got later - I was aware of how much more sleep children needed to function, and biologically Rasiel hadn't changed (except maybe in the brain? I was still mystified on the memory - brain reconciliation) - but this seemed to be the logical conclusion of what he'd said.

"Nobody else in the kingdom can use their Flames."

That was a dodge, not an answer.

"But they do have them? Do they _know?_ "

"Does it matter? They can't use them. Better to spare them false hope." A laconic shrug accompanied this platitude that he seemed to believe in. I almost wanted to ask 'why', but it appeared to be a foolish question upon second consideration, since he'd already pretty heavily implied that it was a direct line of succession thing. "They know as much about Flames as the {Flame Inactive} royals."

So not a whole lot. Probably just that it's unique to the royal bloodline, linked to Sensitivity, and vaguely concerns fire. I suppose there had be a reason for that, related to information security. Or maybe the added mysteriousness just kept the citizens more in awe of the royal family's gift? I subsided, and changed track.

"You keep using an adjective for Flames. Are there other kinds? Or is it named after the discoverer, or something else?"

He seemed pleased by my deductions. "Ah, you noticed that? Yes, there are others. But they aren't relevant to you for a long while yet. Don't worry about it!"

Well, with an answer like that, how could I not? It felt like a premonition of many similar evasive replies to come.

I tried pressing for specifics, but he was the most cheerful stonewall I'd encountered. Eventually, I decided to pursue that line of inquiry in my own time, and changed track once more. It was best to pick one's battles.

For example: My irrational mind insisted loudly that I just straight out ask for a history of the world and demand to know if he knew of any 'Earth' and the seven continents. My rational mind body-checked this out of the way and insisted even louder that I reflect on how many difficult questions I'd have to answer if it turns out that he had no idea, or even that he did have an idea but Rasiel couldn't possibly have known.

"What about my age? You seemed very excited, but also… quite concerned? When I… activated it. Like it was dangerous. Is it?"

"How did you feel when you drew on your Flames, Razzy?" he shot back, switching over to a tolerantly amused look, as if the answer was eminently obvious.

I wasn't _actually_ a child, so I didn't flush with embarrassment. Instead, I sat back and reflected on the moment with more depth.

I'd been avoiding lingering too long on replaying it, to be honest; how else was I supposed to keep my calm through the entire day other than compartmentalizing how close I'd come to death mere hours before? I was fairly sure that was the kind of thing that traumatically affected other people for a bit longer than a morning epiphany and some flinches.

But a philosophy of pretending something did affect me until it didn't had always served me faithfully, so I stuck to it now and tried to analyze the event objectively. As objectively as remembering how I'd felt could be, anyway.

The answer was swift and, indeed, eminently obvious. I'd even thought of it before.

"Like I was about to die," I told the wooden expanse in front of me quietly.

"And I wanted to live."

Not sure what admitting those thoughts aloud made me feel, except perhaps a very neutral 'thoughtful', I ignored any such feelings until they went away.

Another success for said philosophy, hurrah.

.

.

Completely unaffected by any sort of perceived mood shift, the king beamed brightly. "Correct! Since it's usually most effective to wait for a natural awakening, and since natural awakenings always occur in the presence of a near-death - or revivable death - encounter, the usual timeframe for Flame Activation is later in life.

"There are… ways to try and forcibly help along an Activation, but the royal family stopped those archaic practices when they started losing more possible heirs than they could afford. Especially after there stopped being so many illegitimate children to go through in an attempt to perfect the best way to induce a _non_ -fatal incident that was nevertheless close enough to fool them into thinking their lives were actually _in_ fatal danger. Even then it was hit-or-miss, too.

"Entirely inefficient, really," he continued casually, to my growing horror and swallowed nausea. "More so when you consider that only the ruler's _direct_ line had Potential, and although you didn't have to be legitimate to succeed, only _one_ could ever become heir apparent, then heir confirmed, and even so, the confirmation ceremony could be done more than once in the case of unfortunate accidents. Alas, necessary compromises must be carried out to keep an excess of Flame Actives from running amok…"

He sighed. His regret didn't _seem_ feigned.

… Did he really think the implied _sabotage and murder_ of _children_ was a _necessary compromise_ , though?

It was an effort to keep my tone steady and inflectionless. I folded my hands in Rasiel's lap, docile and delicate, acutely aware of the sensation of every finger joint jutting out, as I stared carefully at his face.

"Are you saying they all kill each other for the crown?"

"No, of course not!" He shook his head hastily, before leaning forward again earnestly in placation.

I eventually judged his outburst of reeling shock to be real. Maybe. But if I kept thinking otherwise I was going to become paranoid.

"That was poor wording on my part. Accidents do really happen with reckless youths and dangerous hobbies and natural sicknesses and, yes, Flame training mishaps. While not always deadly, you can imagine how having a crippled heir can be an unpopular choice for a successor in comparison. And Flame Inactives aren't in the running at all, so there's no motive for that.

"Some in-fighting occasionally occurs with the more ambitious Flame Actives who are… unsatisfied leaving the succession order up to sex over age over Flame-strength priority when abdication is not allowed, and losing means marrying into the life of a kingdom-born and not being able to pass down a name or title, but that doesn't always mean deaths, either.

"And there are plenty of possible heirs who've peacefully accepted their lot. How else do you think there can be so much royal blood spread around the kingdom? It accounts for more than just unclaimed affairs. Why, my own mother, the late Queen Ruth, had three younger sisters who, after her coronation at the death of her father, lived out their lives on a generous stipend in the town of their choice until their natural deaths a few years after her own, may she rest in peace."

… He made several good points. I relaxed a little. Relieved that they weren't encouraging familicide, yes, but also that I hadn't been wrong in trusting him - for now. It was straining on me to be this suspicious, when I believed everyone should have a fair chance, but I couldn't help it. Something about the lateness of night wore away my dishonesty filters about how disconcerting it still was to be in an entirely different world, and that put me on edge.

My brain nagged at me. "Wait…" I said slowly. "Abdication isn't allowed?"

"I'll serve until my death," came his confirmation. "We don't really live much longer past than 65-ish on average, so retirement's kind of redundant, and that's accounting for the improvements of the times - it's, ah, hm, I suppose you could call it a little genetic. Flame usage can be unhealthily draining at times, but it does vary quite a bit by person.

"And as I personally have no surviving direct relations, if I die before you come of age at 15, your mother would serve as guiding regent until then. I was rather lucky in that sense… when _my_ mother died I was already well past majority, so it didn't matter. Good thing, too, since she never took an official husband, and her main lover died before she did. A very strong woman she was, though."

A pause, seemingly for him to fondly remember his mother, before he went to assure me, "There's no need to fear, though; I don't plan on dying for long while yet. At least not until I've taught you everything you'd need to know, and, well, as it stands… there are many things I'm not even supposed to hint at until you're older. But I think I can make an exception this time for Flames. Special circumstances, you know."

He chuckled companionably, almost conspiratorially.

I thought: I still didn't particularly want to be king, but maybe it wouldn't be too bad. King Basile seemed cheerful enough in his role, and anyway, did I really want to entrust a kingdom to Belphegor as he was now? I held faith he wasn't a _bad_ kid - no one was irredeemable when they were a child. And he could change, especially if I put my mind to helping him along. But as he was now, and how he was looking to grow up to be, I wouldn't feel right giving him that much power over a place I'd be living in, when I didn't even know for certain if he actually wanted to be king or was just jealous that Rasiel would be and he wouldn't.

As for the queen…? She could be a good mother - she had the enthusiasm for it - but I also couldn't really envision her being a good sole ruler, and eventually the reigns would be passed down regardless. King Basile had implied there were secrets to the kingdom kept only through oral history, too, which made things difficult.

I'd just have to hope his plans for living long went through, although naturally I wouldn't have wished him ill otherwise.

And even then…

Tentatively, I thought: I could be a good ruler. Couldn't I?

I tested out the feel of that thought - just a thought, not even a promise or a resolution of any sort - and found that I could live with it.

I could even like it.

I added a nervous mental laugh. Let's hope this isn't the start of a slippery slope, eh?

My brain was unamused, but it wasn't even an actual separate consciousness so it could just shut up and play along with one of my worse tries at humor.

"So what else can I help you with, my heir?" King Basile followed up, with a welcoming spread of his arms and an eye-crinkling quirk of his lips.

* * *

 _ **#**_

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 ** _#_**

 _ **In which RaCel makes some assumptions off of some information; the king is entirely open to interpretation; and the readers can probably already skip ahead to some conclusions that will take RaCel another mini-arc to figure out due to their lack of meta knowledge.**_

 _ **Or: a rehash of canon Flame theory with a side-helping of lore foreshadowing, through the selective secondhand lenses of two unreliable narrators. This came out longer than expected, so I cut it off, but the next chapter will be as long as it needs to be, so… look forward to that? And to finally finishing up this arc, w00t.**_

 _ **Two-sentence omake: 'Wow,' RaCel thinks in a stunning lack of their usual self-awareness, 'this guy seems super serious and sincere all the time so it's hard to know if he's joking or not.' Everyone else (in the future): *thinks the exact same about RaCel***_

 _ **In all honesty, though, do you think they are similar characters? If so (or not), what do you think about how they played off each other? In character for C's portrayal so far? Tell me your thoughts with a review!**_

 _ **.**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

" _And…" I asked slowly. "… What did Belphegor ask for?"_

" _Oh, his own knife and some itching powder," Basile answered readily, apparently seeing nothing at all wrong with obliging those requests. He confided worriedly, "I'm thinking of getting him a curved throwing knife. It should be less dangerous to him if he slips and cuts himself, right?"_

 _Hey, now… aren't you worrying about completely the wrong thing as a father!? L- Less dangerous to_ _him_ _, maybe, but at the cost of more endangerment to everyone else!_

" _Maybe a penknife instead?" I suggested weakly, while frantically wondering if it was too obvious of me to ask for itching cream as well._


	13. day one (good night)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

.

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/ / _Age: 4_

.

I deliberated. There wasn't anything else I could immediately think of to ask about Flame theory - Basile had promised to guide me through passive attunement exercises when he returned shortly from his trip, and had also been quite determined to stonewall me on the topic of there being more than one Flame type, but I suppose I could let that go since if only Storm Flames were usable in The Kingdom then he was right about it not seeming relevant until later. And if it was magic, which it definitely looked like it was shaping up to be and which I was currently satisfied with assuming it to be, then fantasy books - and manga and other such media not entirely categorized under proper 'books' - had taught me to expect a lot of hand-waving to go on under 'it's magic'. So I could close out on that subject.

I'd also been satisfied on the subjects of royal blood distinctions. Or… mostly.

I almost straight-out asked if the queen had any living family since it'd already been established that the king didn't, until I caught myself with the realization that this would be _highly_ suspicious, and undo my efforts at keeping up the Rasiel cover story, if she _did_ and mentioned or visited frequently.

Didn't mean I couldn't ask, I just had to be tactful and work it in with a prior line of conversation.

"When you said marriage links, and losing out on the throne meaning giving up your title…?" Trailing off, I'd found, generally worked best for inviting people to make their own assumptions and fill in the blanks, which in its own way was very enlightening to see what conclusions they jumped to.

"Oh, that." He didn't seem concerned. "You know how your mother dropped her maiden name when she married into the royal family? It's tradition, to cut off ties when doing so to prevent messy claims. More of a formality with the Flames factoring in, but… who can argue with tradition, right?" Basile smiled wryly. "So marriage links don't matter much except as bragging rights, although I expect you already know that much from having your mother bring back gifts for you two from her monthly visits to Carvers. I'm aware you and your brother quite enjoy competing on the wooden dartboards."

No, I didn't know… any of that, but thank you for telling me. I nodded along, and tucked away an idle thought on asking the queen to bring me along on her next visits. It should please her to have one of her children take an interest in her family, and it would also provide an excuse to get out of the castle.

"And it's not really giving up your title - for example, if _I_ hadn't succeeded I'd still be a prince - it's more… taking away your nobility? You're royal or you're a citizen, really. There's no in-between, so if you're royalty who can't or didn't inherit, then you don't _stop_ being royalty. … We didn't plan to tell you boys this so early, but after the next ruler of your generation has been crowned then you're just royalty-in- _name_ , and without the confirmation ceremony all of your children would lack Potential and therefore simply be kingdom-born. Not always a popular choice, but still a choice."

There were no nobility houses? Strange kingdom. Although if the magic of Flames was so highly regulated and controlled by the royal family, it'd make sense they'd want to keep that on monopoly. I… couldn't imagine Belphegor being happy just as a prince-in-name, however. I was starting to rethink that whole 'be the king' epiphany I'd just had.

I- I still had plenty of time to see how things turn out, though. _I_ had choices, too. Or I'd find them and _make_ them. Same difference.

I also filed away the 'confirmation ceremony' tidbit under 'magic magically makes it's own magical sense magically - MAGIC'. My brain chided me for the whimsical name, but grudgingly accepted the classification as an honest one.

So, Flame theory down, check. Royalty and blood relations down, check. Belphegor…?

I shifted around a little so I could straighten my back and look the king in the eyes comfortably. It wasn't easy on a stack of hardcover dictionaries, much as I needed the height boost. "Have you considered…"

I searched for a good way to put 'be a better parent' politely, and without annoying him. Basile didn't seem like someone easily annoyed - 'blithe' was more his style, it seemed - but people tended to be cross about their parenting skills being questioned, no matter how good they actually were or how much they actually cared. It was a human pride thing, I think, about the ability to raise their offspring well. There was of the course the other route - turning into a horrible self-conscious mess of concern about their inadequacy to possess guardianship of another sentient being - but Basile didn't seem the type, either.

"… Have you noticed Belphegor dislikes being compared to me?" I broached safely. Lead him in, lead him in.

"He does?" This seemed to be news to him. … How oblivious do you have to be for that to be true? "Why, I only do it when there's something to be learned from your example, my heir. I would not object to myself being told where I could improve. I merely wish for him to become the best he can be."

"Yes, and that's very… high-minded of you, but…" I pushed down the well of awkwardness rising up from giving a parenting speech to somebody physically around my- what I remember my mental age to be, and _actually my father_ in a sense. "Well, Belphegor- and I are different from you. We're still children. When you say things like that - and especially when you keep calling me 'my heir' - it makes us both uncomfortable to have you imply that you favor me as the firstborn, and that I'm- I'm naturally superior to him."

Agnostic _god_ , this was so much weirder- _worse_ when I wasn't getting paid to consult and give a professional opinion.

Basile appeared… puzzled? Maybe a little defensive, but earnest. "What do you mean, my dear child? Do I not express my love sufficiently through words and granting his requests? My mother always did the same. I also hug you two, don't I?"

"That's not the point," I tried to counter.

"Then what is? I love you two equally and very much. But it makes sense to advise one's child where to improve to spend more time passing down knowledge to one's heir, doesn't it?"

And it _did_ make sense, but not the way things actually were in this household or context. For one, 'advising' was different from 'constantly critiquing against another', and for another, I just didn't get the vibe that Basile had actually spent a lot more time with Rasiel before this.

Tackle the little things first, C. You can do this, me.

I wanted to rub my forehead or sigh. This was 'cheerful stonewall' all over again.

I did neither, and patiently pleaded, "Father, just please stop calling me your heir and- at least tone down your comparisons, okay? Please?" I paused, embarrassed, but he valued his family so I forged onwards. "For the sake of your child's peace of mind, Father? I want to make amends with Belphegor and this will help."

He looked doubtful, but agreed with a shrug easily enough. "Very well, Razzy, if that will bring you peace of mind, my h- child." _His_ pause was purely thoughtful. "If you'd like, I can have a talk with little Bel about this? A heart-to-heart, see how he feels."

 _No_. That would make things so much worse. Sneaking around his back and talking to the person who was supposedly both of our paternal figure about weaknesses and vulnerabilities and _feelings?_

A betrayal of the worst kind to children, if a more forgivable one to adults.

"No!" I blurted out hastily. There was no time to modulate my tone, in case he made up his mind to go through with his proposal. "No, no, that's fine. There's no need for that. I-" What would make him approve? "-I want to resolve this issue myself, in practice for- being a king. Like you, Father."

Success! Basile went from thoughtful to surprised to proud.

"Well, alright then, Razzy," he obligingly allowed. "I'll let you settle things between you two, then. Like I was always told, some healthy competition is good for siblings."

 _This is still not healthy competition!_

"So," Basile went on, more briskly, taking out a blank piece of paper and a pen, uncapping it with his teeth and spitting it out neatly. "Any requests for the resupply trip? Anything is okay this time, to celebrate your Activation. No item limit."

About that.

"About that. Why the-" 'Anachronistic' might be too big of a word for Rasiel, even with his father's clearly very flexible suspension of disbelief. "-different time periods for things, Father? Where do you resupply from, again? And what do specialty items cost?"

He chuckled. "What do you mean?" the king questioned pleasantly with a tilt of his head, combover shifting slightly with the movement. "Who's been teaching you things like that, Razzy?"

How could I answer? Looks like this was a landmine.

"I just noticed myself," I replied with a touch of defiance - common for a kid whose words have just been challenged. "I was curious and noticed… differences. Some things use different- systems, or materials, or just look different."

He chuckled again, still warm and still pleasantly, but his next sentence came out decidedly as a shut-down. "Well, curiosity is good for a growing child, but maybe you should just listen to your elders and accept that some things just are, okay?"

I let my dissatisfaction show - children showed their mercurial emotions - but slumped back childishly with a 'humph', pretending to accept this. I folded up and neatly stored away my actual dissatisfaction into a drawer somewhere in my mind, to be unpacked and dissected and converted later into motivation fuel for research. Spite was an excellent motivator for people of all age ranges, even if some preferred to package it under different labels.

I even added a glare for good measure, which pushed the king to sigh and add another line of placation, lightened by a teasing note. "Everything costs what I pay for it, of course, and where I resupply from is a royal secret you aren't old enough for yet, Razzy."

I hesitated. It sounded- ugh. It sounded bad even in my mind, but I _had_ to guess.

"Magic?" I ventured reluctantly.

He didn't chuckle, he _laughed_ , and it took all of my restraint to not actually flush with humiliation. "Ah, the minds of _children_. 'Magic'. Of course, you can think of it that way for now, Razzy. It's… hmm. Not that far from the truth."

So magic didn't exist, or not under that name. My next question was obvious, and shot out sharper. "Flames, then? And if Flames aren't magic, what are they?"

"That'd be telling, and to the best of my knowledge, Flames are the manifestation of wave energies from one's soul. Life energy, maybe, which is why actual manifestation is difficult and rare and is most commonly triggered by a brush with death." He shrugged, giving, to my surprise, a very reasonable and candid - and dare I say almost scientific? - explanation. Definitely not magic, then, even if some part of me still vehemently argued that _soul fire_ was pretty evidently MAGIC.

Still super sketchy-sketch on the 'resupply' business, though.

Basile's tone became inviting again. "So? You don't have _any_ requests for this month's resupply trip? Usually I'd have asked at dinner, but you weren't there today. I already have your brother's and mother's." His pen was poised, ready to ruin the pristine possibilities of the paper by confining it to just a few words.

I didn't want to leave that topic, but it was useless throwing myself against another stonewall. A yawn bubbled out. Also, I did need- well, want shopping done.

Let's see… wardrobe, right? It was summer, but it was never too early to plan for the cold, which my usual style - neck-covering and modest - favored. I didn't want to unnecessarily waste clothes I already had, but wearing Rasiel's usual clothes would just keep his image freshly associated with me in Belphegor's mind, and… well, looking at his closet I could sympathize with his choice of 'usual clothes', if it'd even been _his_ choice and not one of his parents.

"Some more plain scarves like this one in sedated colors-" I plucked at one of the gray 'ears' of my tied-off neckerchief. "- and maybe a few in longer lengths for when it's cooler. Gray and darker colors preferred. No black or picture patterns. Some- long-necked shirts in mid- and long-sleeve lengths for summer and autumn, some long-necked sweaters and regular long-sleeves for winter."

I hesitated. The pants should be okay staying; Belphegor had the same kind. But I hadn't seen shorts in that closet and I was going to _drown_ in sweat if I went outside (or even stayed inside; air-conditioning units seemed to be about as rare and restricted as electricity) in mid-summer with _black slacks_.

"Some knee-length short pants with lots of pockets?" I described capri shorts the best I could without saying 'capris'. I wasn't sure if Rasiel should know the terminology for 'sneakers', either. Basile's perception of believable vocabulary was a bit all over the place, and that whole refusal to talk about the anachronisms thing and hodge-podge era of The Kingdom, while suspicious as all get-out, was also kind of still making me uneasily careful about my choice in words.

But I wanted- _needed_ a stealth edge over Belphegor, for my sanity and yes, peace of mind. "Some softer and quieter shoes than these-" I clomped the heel of my left shoe against the desk with a light kick for demonstration purposes. "-ones right now."

I covertly peeked through my eyelashes. Was that too much? I remembered with a gnawing sense of guilt that the staff only got two requests a month, and even that was considered much better than a random citizen. I didn't want to become too accustomed to 'royal leniency' and become as entitled as some of my past charges. I'd seen where that road led down: generally speaking, teenage rebellion that landed them in jail; and then release on probation; before getting into their parents' alma mater solely through money; and wasting an education in favor of fraternity/sorority bashes; and eventually getting convicted again for drugs and/or drunk driving and/or sexual assault and/or insider trading.

Or in the really bad cases, murder out of boredom.

Hah, but that was _tabloids_ stuff. I didn't think even Belphegor was quite socio-/psychopathic enough for that.

Anyway, Basile didn't seem upset. He kept writing, and then looked up encouragingly. "Anything else? One-time offer of no item limit, Razzy, better take your chances now."

Well…

"A pack- no, two packs of matches," I answered immediately. One to refund Reg like promised, and one for me as the spent the foreseeable future in a castle mostly running on candlelight. "Waterpoof, if possible. Are bobby pins specialty items?"

He considered, rolled back a shoulder idly, and then nodded.

"A pack of bobby pins, then, please." Extras for if I lost the borrowed ones, and of course repayment for the borrowed ones. That had been - I searched my memory of names and the faces from whom I'd threatened them out of at smilepoint - Felicity, the taller maid with a bun. "A sunhat, too."

"Not sunglasses?" he interrupted.

The king knew about sunglasses but not the maids? I sensed this was related to the hush-hush anachronisms and resupply trips. Or maybe just a difference in education? Were modern things just really expensive high class goods? No, in that case there was still the problem of where they were sourced from, and why the king wouldn't talk about it. And I suspected nobody else would, either, although in their cases it was more likely they just didn't know.

The king was starting to feel a bit like a [Final Boss]. Was I the [Level One Newbie] in this scenario?

[Interrogation Skill] not high enough, please [Roll Again].

"Both?" I hazarded hopefully. Rasiel's skin looked like it burned easily. Though, Belphegor spent a lot of time outside and he was fine. But he had a _white_ long-sleeved shirt. "And sunscreen."

Better safe than sorry.

Would things like tape and safety pins - the pinnacle of versatility and usefulness - be suspicious? If bobby pins were known to staff I could've plausibly picked it up from them, right? But if they weren't…

I decided against it. My question about the anachronisms might still be raising the king's [Perception].

Feeling a little bad about the inarguable selfishness of my next request, but tentatively arguing against myself that it could provide a clue about the geography of where he resupplied from - Earth or not-Earth, climate? - I asked for a selection of the most exotic fruit he could get.

Basile patiently recorded the request.

I still thought I was asking for too much. This wasn't paying someone else to do shopping for me, this wasn't a equal transaction; this was a gift for not dying.

… Well, okay, when I put it _that_ way it sounded a lot better, actually.

Something he said earlier bothered me. Rather, my brain bit at me until it bothered me as well.

"And…" I asked slowly. "… What did Belphegor ask for?"

"Oh, his own knife and some itching powder," Basile answered readily, apparently seeing nothing at all wrong with obliging those requests. He confided worriedly, "I'm thinking of getting him a curved throwing knife. It should be less dangerous to him if he slips and cuts himself, right?"

Hey, now… aren't you worrying about completely the wrong thing as a father!? L- Less dangerous to _him_ , maybe, but at the cost of more endangerment to everyone else!

"Maybe a penknife instead?" I suggested weakly, while frantically wondering if it was too obvious of me to ask for itching cream as well.

I caved. "And could I have some anti-itching lotion added to my requests, please? And that's the end. Thank you."

He saw nothing wrong with this, either.

This is not how you parent, Basile. This is not even how you _king_.

"Are you sure? No item limit," he tempted, waving his pen at me playfully.

I smiled with reserve. "I'm sure, Father."

Shrugging, Basile accepted this answer, capped the pen again, and slid the paper on top of a stack of other papers. He leaned forward once more and laced his hands. "It's getting late, and growing boys need their sleep, but there's one more thing I thought I should let you know."

Yes, 4- and 5-year-olds needed optimally 10-12 hours of sleep a night, the more the better. My smile closed off a bit, the reserve expanding into the opened-up space. "Yes?"

"Well, Activating your Flames so early basically makes you a guarantee for kingship. So," the king declared, "we've decided that you should have a bodyguard! There's not really any danger, but it's good to have someone you trust with your back, and starting early can help build that bond. Do you remember Olgert, from butler training? He's had some combat experience, and just so happens to owe me a life debt, which I've transferred to you. I trust you won't abuse this knowledge. I think we brought you and your brother to see him once, when he was still recovering from his wounds from outside. Oh, but that was about two or three years ago, you've probably forgotten. He was actually supposed to be a butler to the _both_ of you, but now he'll be your personal one starting from- well, from when we get back from the trip. I'll introduce you two at breakfast. He's accompanying me on it."

I didn't remember an 'Olgert', yes, but not for the reason he thought. Still, that assumption benefited me - even if the notion of someone following me around all the time kind of rankled at the limitations it put on my freedom under surveillance, and also this was going to be _another_ strike against my efforts to prove to Belphegor that the blatant favoritism wasn't so _blatant_ \- so I focused instead on the peculiar emphasis Rasiel's father had placed on 'outside.'

"Outside where?" I inquired politely, eyes wide in projected earnest.

He smiled, vaguely. "Oh, just. _Outside_. Don't worry about it, Razzy!"

So of course I immediately started worrying about it. Good to see my earlier premonition about more evasiveness to come hadn't been wrong, though. This was almost word-for-word his reply about alternate Flame types.

It was basically a verbal big red button blinking in bright neon, 'important stuff here'.

When I pressed further, carefully firm in my persisting interest, Rasiel's father finally sighed and relented with a few more sentences of 'assurance', although he was showing the first signs of impatience in the entire extended conversation. "Really, my h- _child_ , there's no need to be concerned about it just yet. While I applaud you finally taking more of an interest in the mechanics of ruling, it's still a little _far_ too early for you to start thinking outside The Kingdom. You're not even five yet. I'll think about taking you two {Out} in a few years, maybe. It's getting late and you need your sleep for a growing boy, Rasiel. Good _night_. I'll see you again in about a week and a half. Sleep well."

That was a clear dismissal. When I'd needed to declare a topic closed without saying as much outright, I'd used pretty much to same words to sternly direct stubborn students to sleep.

Well, if he wasn't going to tell me anything, I was just going to have to figure it out myself, wasn't I?

Investigation ho! … to _morrow_.

"Good night," I returned, terse but polite. "Father."

Standing up, I dipped my neck in a sort of respectful half-bow, and then turned around and left the office, gently closing the door behind me.

.

.

I was well and thoroughly exhausted by the time I finally flopped into bed. Freed by my privacy, I let myself squish a pillow against my face and flail around bonelessly for a moment, rolling from side to side and generally making a mess of my covers as I suppressed whines of 'why _meeeeeeee_ ' and inarticulate groans of ' _ughhhhhhh_ ' into the pillowcase. Very immature, but also very de-stressing.

The day had been one that demanded de-stressing, too. And the added difficulty to a simple bedtime hygiene routine when I was already aching to just go to sleep hadn't helped: turns out the soap hadn't been the only thing Belphegor managed to glue down. It'd actually taken me a tired moment to understand that just fruitlessly tugging at the two-in-one shampoo-conditioner bottle and the watermelon-scented kiddie body wash wasn't effective. (The anachronisms weren't even worth noting at this point; I'd found two previous overlooked light switches for the bathroom and bedroom's electric lanterns, too, whose fake plastic candles I'd originally assumed to be actual wax ones.)

And then I had to wipe off the crown when I eventually got around to prodding around inside it with a wad of toilet paper to discover what else Belphegor had trapped. And _then_ and then I had to wash my hands again because it wasn't easy getting rid of all the time-melted oily butter remains from metal without slipping and getting some on yourself, especially in a body whose dexterity (and hand size) might be instinctive, but weren't up to par with memories of such.

Grimly satisfied, I returned it to its place on the bedside table _not_ occupied by two books and a package of fruit.

I resolved to find out if there was a door lock and a key for my room in the morning. For tonight, I just barricaded it the best I could with dresser shoved in front of it. The door opened in, so that should be good enough as a makeshift midnight-murder preventative, in case Belphegor - who I'd apparently managed to enrage even more in a day than the previous Rasiel had, despite my completely opposite intentions - got it into his mind to try again.

I was so tired I'd probably sleep right through it if he actually _did_ manage to get in.

… Well, no, I'd probably just be awakened by the pain from a knife shoved halfway into my skull, since it was doubtful a 4-year-old would have the upper body strength and precision necessary to fully embed a blade through one's eye sockets into one's brain fast enough to prevent the victim from receiving the pain signals stimulating them to consciousness, like I'd reasoned out before.

 _O_ -kay, brain, stop _right there_ and save the nightmare fuel for when I'm _not_ awake, thanks?

Thanks.

I laughed a little to myself, breathless and hanging upside halfway off my perfectly plush bed. It was that state between drowsiness and manic attention that made everything seems a hundred times funnier than it was, otherwise.

… It also made philosophy and off-tangent musings seem a hundred times more lucid and vitally important.

Case in point: it occurred to me, lying there and watching the canopy ceiling with my blood rushing to my head, that perhaps I'd found it a little too easy to give up my past identity and accept Rasiel's life as my new reality. I'd gone over this with over rationales… but you couldn't really miss what you can't truly remember, right?

Like I'd already realized earlier, my memories of another existence were blurred in some areas and vague in others. And included in those blurry vague areas were… people's names. Some faces and select histories, too. Made sense because no one's memory was perfect and the things perceived to be less valuable were easily forgotten, but… _my_ name? My connections'. My family's, if I even _had_ any. Clients' and charges' and the writing on the tag of the receptionist who'd greeted me in the gym lobby for months and who I'd suspected of low-key flirting with me for just as long. I could remember the dreadful names and exact frou-frou grooming cursed on pedigree puppies who've I've been introduced to once or twice, but I couldn't even remember if I'd been orphaned or merely estranged or a cherished beloved.

(And all my years of schooling were reduced to a smudge of time with occasional highlights of notable events or disciplinary quirks picked up, but I was pretty sure I'd remembered it that way even back in my other- my _previous_ life.)

Attachments were hard to recall, too. Muted, somehow. I knew I'd loved my friends and been proud of my students and admired my teachers and respected with restraint most of my employers, but I didn't… feel any impactful loss from having, somewhere over the course of the day, quickly moved on to accepting I'd likely never see or interact with them again. Just a… distant, weary resignation. An emotional 'shrug and sigh'.

And of course, there was at least a day missing before I woke up here, at most- how long? I- I couldn't even recall where I'd last been, just my more or less daily life. I was _pretty sure_ I was- _had been_ a twenty-something, anyway.

I hadn't mourned too long over my past, because in some respects, I'd already mourned, even if I didn't remember doing so. I'd already stopped being troubled over it. And that was, somehow, inexplicably troubling all by itself.

But I was exhausted and whatever I thought of now, I'd probably forget in the morning. I struggled back up with some difficulty, absently noted I'd have to work on abdominal strength and general fitness later, and buried myself into a nest of feathery down and thin silks.

For the sake of narrative flow, I'd like to have said that I fell asleep with a heavy mind and had a restless night haunted by half-remembered dreams.

Thankfully, I was as certain as I could be that I was not in a world governed by Narrativium. Instead, I fell asleep quite quickly, too worn out to cling further to consciousness, and slept very comfortably in a canopy bed fit for royalty.

To be specific, fit for a - hah - prince.

I blamed the sinfully soothing sheets and cushioned mattress. The cloud-like puffs for pillows didn't hurt, either.

If I dreamed, I didn't remember, and I woke up at dawn again, as refreshed as I had the morning before.

* * *

 _ **#**_

 ** _#_**

 ** _#_**

 _ **Discworld shout-out there for Narrativium. Read it. It's great. Synonymously, it's British fantasy satire.**_

 _ **Wow, was that a long day. ~40k. I can't promise any more daily updates (squishing in 5k words in a day for this last-minute chapter was awful, and if you catch mistakes please review in so I can fix them). There's a bonus content chapter coming a day or two after this to cap off this mini-arc, and there'll be about a week's hiatus while I write up a reservoir for the next mini-arc, which will have timeskips.**_

' _ **Aliathian', my Deviantart account (created more or less solely for this fic so far to document my attempts on an art tablet), now has A. the second mini-arc's cover picture as well as B. a very hypothetical visual of teenaged!RaCel, since it's going to be a while until we get there. But we will, don't worry. Oh, we will. (I'm going to keep the 'Day One' picture for now as the cover art, though, since I'm not too happy with the second mini-arc's picture, but spent too much time on it to not post it.)**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **[E N D] of ARC [1],**_

 _ **[D A Y / O N E]**_


	14. (bonus content i)

**[E N D] of ARC [1] of STORY ARC [1]**

 **Day One - Kingdom Arc:**

 **[COMPLETE]**

 **.**

 **BONUS CONTENT:**

 **[UNLOCKED]**

 **the silly, the serious, and the switched**

 **.**

 **.**

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 **Bat-ciel [kitchen listen] Extra:**

When I went exploring, it was natural that I'd come across some unused nooks and crannies in my thoroughness and determination to leave no stone unstepped.

I didn't expect the swarm of bats that swooped down on me when I opened the door of the furthest tower in the dustiest and most disused out-of-the-way area of the otherwise shining white and well-swept castle, though. Perhaps the copious spiderwebs should've warned me, but...

I ended up running away, almost falling down the stairs in my haste after seeing nothing but an empty room crawling with furred patches of darkness.

I regarded bats somewhat akin to bees: logically you knew they were helpful and important and more scared of you, but when they came flying at you, whether it was solitary or in a pack, the human instinct was to flee in fear of attack.

In the brightly lit and populated corridor, I leaned against a wall to catch my breath, disregarding the strange look a nearby guard was giving me.

Although, out of consideration, I did keep my shudder internal, in case an external expression of my strangled heartbeat exacerbated the look. this what they called childhood trauma?

I was never going to like bats.

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 **Bel!PoV Switch of [night terror]:**

Siel never kept his door locked.

Arrogant _heir_ thought he didn't _need_ to. It bit at me to know, somewhere below my constant fury, that he was right.

This would be my third try with the midnight sneak-attack trick. Hadn't worked before - Siel was always just that little bit _faster_ or _stronger_ or _cleverer_ and that bite was starting to turn into a _burn_ \- but that didn't mean it would _never_ work.

One day. One day I'd catch him off-guard, finally, and I'd-

I'd-

Well, I hadn't decided that far yet, but I'd know when it happened and I got there. I was a _prince_ , even if I wasn't the _crown_ prince, and princes were _always_ right. Like Mother cooed, even if I wasn't sure if I liked having to take advice from her. I mean, she liked _Siel_ better. She didn't _say_ as much but it was _so obvious_ , just like _Father_ , just like _Siel_ always _flaunting_ how much _better_ he was, that, that-

 _Ugh_. I didn't know any bad words bad enough for my reflected mirror-image. I'd have to sneak around later and get some from the guards and maids complaining.

It was always fun popping up when they thought they were safe to laugh at their shocked expressions turn to fear. _They_ knew how to treat a prince.

… I still wasn't the _crown_ prince, though.

No, the _crown_ prince was sleeping soundly in his four-poster bed, a perfect - okay, maybe it was a _little_ neater - copy of mine. We were copies of each other sharing copies of everything, just slightly… off. Different colors - white, black. Opposite sides - left, right.

One version just older and _better_.

I carefully slipped the door back into place so it didn't creak. Siel was a light sleeper. Or maybe his instincts were just _better_ , too.

Either way, by the time I'd gotten in position and adjusted my grip on the knife I'd nicked from the kitchen table from dinner last night - to match and counter Siel slipping away a knife _first_ \- I was already expecting Siel to wake up when I moved his ( _our_ ) hair away from his ( _our_ ) eyes. I was expecting it, and I was preparing for the fight that would happen - just like the last two times - after he tackled me off his bed and onto the floor.

I'd gotten a black eye and a chipped tooth from the last one, but I'd gotten back for his first punch with a black eye of my own, so we'd been even. For that, anyway.

We weren't even _now_ \- I could taste a ghost of the moist crumbly dirt and those wriggling worms he'd pinned me down (in a bed like this) and forced me to eat last week. I _still_ think that was unfair revenge for the laxatives. (The worms had _squirmed_ all the way down my throat and guts had burst between my teeth until I could control my reflexive chewing and the dirt had been encrusted with tiny hard bits of pebbles-)

Like, I hadn't even used the _really strong_ ones, okay? … The cook wouldn't let me take them, and she was as unaffected as Ms. Slater when it came to respecting a _prince_ (or a prince's pointy edges).

I wasn't disappointed by Siel's ( _my_ ) eyes blinking awake and focusing with sudden clarity, but I _was_ surprised by what happened next.

First, that he didn't dodge or shove me aside. He could've. He _should've_. But… he _didn't_.

Weird. (Interesting.) Huh.

His ( _my_ ) eyes even widened as sheer confused momentum kept me swinging the knife down.

 _I_ was caught off-guard by finally catching _him_ off-guard. I mean, I'd expected it _eventually_ , because I wasn't gonna give up until I _did_ , but I didn't know it'd be this _soon!_ I had no _plans_ set yet! Ugh, stupid _Siel_ and always _ruining_ my plans even when he _didn't_.

Second, that he somehow _set his eyes on fire_ and _melted my knife right out of existence_.

My hand was left clutching empty air.

It was, I begrudgingly admitted to myself, kinda _cool_. Totally a _mean_ and _underhanded_ trick _typical_ of Siel (and myself), but… a cool trick, anyway.

And then my mood soured (further).

… Because _of course_ Siel the _heir apparent_ and _angel child_ would get the bloodline first, like Father always talked about vaguely. I _guessed_ it was the bloodline, anyway. The red fire was _kind of_ a giveaway, from the short demonstration Father gave us once, tossing a fireball from hand to hand.

I think it was supposed to be longer? But then Mother gave this breathy sigh and rushed over and they started doing _icky adult stuff_ like _kissing_ and then they rushed off to do _more icky adult stuff_ like- like- like, uh, _more kissing_.

I mean, I _guess_. What _ever_. Gross adult stuff was super boring anyway.

Back to surprising weird (interesting) stuff.

Third, that Siel _didn't_ immediately tackle me and try to get the first punch in again.

Kind of annoying, since I'd had the first kick ready and now I was going to have to keep it waiting all tensed up until he snapped out of his _internal_ gloating about awakening the fire _first_ and finally got around to _verbally_ gloating about it, that- _moron_.

I really wanted stronger bad words to describe him. He deserved them. I moved up 'hiding around corners to listen in on the peasants talking' on my priority list, which mostly consisted of 'keep an eye on Siel' and 'nick another knife' and 'prepare revenge/counterattacks' and 'find new animals in the garden for target practice, now that _somebody's_ complained to Mother and Father about me using _them_ '.

Oh, and also 'find the complainer to give them something _else_ to complain about'.

Fourth?

Siel-

I couldn't even believe it myself, but it was happening.

Siel was- was-

Like, _smiling?_ At _me?_ And not one of his ( _our_ ) _usual_ smiles, but like a- a-

The closest comparison I had was one of Mother's less _gushy_ smiles.

It was _so_. _Weird_. (I- Interesting…?)

Freaky.

I was immediately deeply suspicious. And also maybe threw up a bit in my mouth out of disgust and _more_ disgust at the small part of me that wanted to- to _relax_ at that smile. A smile that somehow _radiated_ calm and kindness and other such totally foreign expressions to see on his ( _my_ ) face.

It had to be another trick. But _why?_ What was he _after?_

I was going to ask those questions a lot in the next few… years, really.

Not that I knew it then.

At the moment, I just recoiled backwards, tried to look unbothered, and wished _really hard_ for a second knife as I watched Siel apparently watch himself.

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 **Maid!PoV Switch of [get dressed]:**

I was just minding my own business, walking down the hallway with Edeva on our way to laundry duty. We wanted to finish early to nab a better spot in the request line today. She was my usual task-partner; shorter, at a deficit in the metaphorical spine area, and ash-blonde with loose waves that contrasted my own neat chestnut bun, we nevertheless managed to get along quite well between her softspoken kindness and my own business-like sternness.

Of course, that all really meant _nothing_ when _Prince Rasiel_ stepped out into our path and asked for our help in a tone that was as haughty as ever, if surprisingly (and suspiciously) somewhat more politely worded.

One half of the terror twins who had broken many staff to tears (and out of a job, in the worst cases), we'd both heard plenty of horror stories, and each had our own fair share of dreadful personal experiences, too.

Getting along or not getting along, I was certain that Edeva was just as ready to sell me out as I was to do the same, if it had meant being granted a reprieve from whatever lay ahead. More knife target practice? More demands to be complicit in another convoluted and far-too-cunning-for-children scheme against his brother? Maybe (one could hope) just an order to clean up a mess he'd made with only a _fe_ w derisive mutters aimed at us? (As if either brats lowered themselves to address us properly on equal footing, when, really, we all knew it _wasn't_ equal footing.)

Working in the castle felt like we were constantly in danger of being suddenly drafted and unwillingly embroiled in their sibling warfare. … Pretty worth it for the position perks and pay, but it never felt that way when it _happened_.

We traded grim glances - Edeva's more visibly shaken - and proceeded slower than was probably acceptable, our reluctancy weighing us down, even when faced against the prospective of future punishment for willful tardiness and neglect of duty.

"Felicity…" Edeva murmured worriedly, tugging lightly at the edge of my stiff uniform sleeve. Prince Rasiel had ducked back into his room, which only made arrival seem all the more ominous. Each step forward was a conscious effort and minor struggle.

"Keep calm," was all I could offer back in condolence. That, and an awkward little clap on her shoulder.

And then the morning became… _strange_. Or should I say that Prince Rasiel's _behavior_ became _strange?_

The hairstyle change was maybe not too unusual by itself, but-

The continued politeness? The non-malevolent smiling? The resting state of serenity rather than mercurial mood-swings? The seemingly-sincere extension of- of- casualness?

(I dared not think 'friendliness'.)

His _voice itself_ seemed… different. A little… less harsh, less demanding, less caustic, maybe. I shuddered when trying to mentally associate 'softer' or even 'gentler' with 'Prince Rasiel' - it just felt _wrong_. But it was, inexplicably, _true_.

And the _apologizing and expressions of gratefulness?_

I was stunned by this abrupt turnaround in personality. Edeva was no better. With his eyes revealed, I had to admit that he seemed more like an innocent child who had expressions _other_ than 'scary-happy fanged grin'.

W- Was he being possessed!? We'd all heard about the late-night Awakening - gossip spread fast among the bored guards to the cooped-up domestic staff. Nobody except the royal family knew exactly how it worked, only that it kept our fair kingdom peaceful and prosperous. D- Did it involve inviting possession of a spirit, like a lesser fragment of the Two!?

 _Now_ I was sounding like Edeva. _She_ was the superstitious and devoted one, not me. I, meanwhile, barely _acknowledged_ the founding legends as perhaps more than fanciful myths.

But the personality change was _way_ too drastic, wasn't it!?

We flinched back reflexively at his smiles. Even if he might (and that was a _big_ 'might', but for some reason [ _smiles?_ ] I was hesitantly inclined to believe him) be honest about this new, angelic-by-comparison attitude-flip, it was really unnerving to see a perfectly calm expression have a surprise smile just _sprout_ and then _retract_ without any sign of it having happened. And his smiles, even if they lacked their usual malevolence, were still wide and toothy and more like a baring of teeth.

I couldn't help but think that the blank switch to brightly beaming could be almost… _endearing_ , on another child with a different, and _less_ immediately trauma-triggering expression. My hand trembled slightly with a queasy mix of horror and fascination at these thoughts (which would've been unthinkable just yesterday in respect to _either_ of the princes) as I surrendered four of my backup bobby pins - and also with the thought of having to use up one of my requests next month for more pins.

I mean, despite his apparent new outlook on life, even if he stuck to that positivity-and-sunshine attitude, he was still _royalty_. I gloomily foresaw no replacement or return for my pins. I was just a forgettable maid, after all.

I knew my place in The Kingdom.

.

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 **Clarification on Every Character's Unique Nicknames for Each Other:** _{spellings reflect mental reference}_

 _Queen Raynell -_ (Basile = Baz, my firestorm); (Rasiel = my little angel, my angel child); (Belphegor = my little demon, my bell)

 _King Basile -_ (Raynell = my rain, Nellie); (Rasiel = my heir, Razzy); (Belphegor = Bel)

 _Crown Prince/Heir Apparent Rasiel -_ (Raynell = the queen, Rasiel's mother); (Basile = the king, Rasiel's father); (Rasiel = C); (Belphegor = N/A)

 _Prince Belphegor -_ (Raynell = Mother); (Basile = Father, the king); (Rasiel = Siel, Si, the heir)

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 **A Running Commentary of 'Day One' From Deep, Deep, Deep Underneath C's Layers Upon Layers of Heavily Internalized Personal Social Filters and Self-Control/Discipline/Restraint/Censorship:**

\- SHIT MURDERCHILD IN THE HOUSE (what is this, undertale?)

\- holy fuck i'm on fire and that knife is on fire and now it's not but my eyes are still on fire and they're not? burning? (the laws of science just rolled in their grave)

\- Holy _fuck_ I'm bitchin' _royalty_ now, motherfuckers! Watch me and weep, every condescending rich bastard I ever took a paycheck from!

\- aw wait crap i'm related to the murderchild with sibling Issues with a capital I

\- MURDERCHILD IN MIRROR AHHHHHH

\- calm the fuck down ladies and stop looking like i'm about to BITE YOUR FUCKING HEADS OFF will ya

\- like hell who needs a CROWN when you've got FRUIT!?

\- shit my new mom is really pretty and so is my dad GIVE ME YOUR GENES RIGHT NOW BEFORE I RIP THEM OUT OF YOU oh wait i already have them in me lol jk i forgot

\- smol angry murderchild's gonna be a smol angry murderchild what you gonna do

\- haters gonna hate

\- bitch please hands off the merchandise

\- no no no teacher listen you're doing this all wrong if you're sick of your job teaching you're supposed to feel dead and dream about day drinking on the INSIDE not look dead and actually day drink on the OUTSIDE

\- what? the? fuck? and cut the crap are you _blind_ to this hellchild torturing me now is _that_ it

\- FOOD OH HELL YESSSSSSS

\- got milk?

\- OH NO FUCK FUCK FUCK ABORT MISSION SMOL ANGRY MURDERCHILD IS SH-SH-SHAKING ME WHAT DO I DO I REPEAT WHAT DO I DO FUCK FUCK FUCK AHHHHHHHH

\- o... kay? anticlimax much all up in this bitch

\- aw he looks happy. now don't think too hard about why he's happy.

\- haha more class WAT

\- Y U NO GIV MEH DA BOOKS

\- i need to wash my hands WHY CAN'T I WASH MY HANDS

\- interrogation time is a go

\- aw you complimented me you totally like me aw i like you too you complimented me aw i feel all warm and fuzzy now aw

\- okay i don't feel warm or fuzzy anymore THE HIGH IS GONE and the world is a sadder place for it

\- murderchild or no murderchild, that is the easiest question

\- INDIANA JONES BATTLECRY i've never watched indiana jones MONTY PYTHON BATTLECRY i've never watched monty python

\- bitchin' kitchen mission is a go

\- NOW LET ME JUST CASUALLY SIDLE UP HERE AND CASUALLY LISTEN TO A PRIVATE CONVERSATION WHILE CASUALLY HIDING OUT FROM THE CONVERSERS CASUALLY NOTHING WEIRD HERE NOPE

\- hi there i totally wasn't eavesdropping nothing weird here nope

\- LET ME HANG AND BE COOL W/ MAH HOMIES i have no other friends help me get a life cuz i don't got one rn

\- BE MY FRIENDS PLEASE BE MY FRIENDS I WANT FRIENDS PLEASE FRIEND FRIEND ME PLEASE

\- why won't anyone looooooove meeeeeeee *gross sobbing*

\- lol nvrmind more important things are going down in this joint

\- fruit loot by the foot bag SCORE

\- suspicious room is suspicious~, i'm totes calling it

\- OOH LOCKED DOOR IT MUST BE _IMPORTANT_ OR WHY ELSE WOULD IT BE LOCKED UP RIGHT THERE THAT IS SOME PERFECTLY LOGICAL SENSE YUP

\- curse these tiny arms

\- curse these tiny feet

\- curse these tiny fists

\- Uhhhhhhhhhhh I Had A Lovely Day Father And How About You Hm?

\- time to get ANSWERS for these QUESTIONS

\- are these actually ANSWERS or just cleverly disguised lead-ins to more QUESTIONS

\- ahahaha FIRE YESSSS did someone say CONGRATULATIONS ON BASICALLY BEING A MOTHERFUCKING DRAGON yet

\- back the fuck up there are MORE? MURDERCHILDREN? EXPLAIN NOW

\- this is not how you parent correctly

\- this is still not how you parent correctly

\- gdi just let me teach you how to parent later okay i cannot deal with this shit anymore rn

\- I STILL HAVE QUESTIONS DAMNIT

\- good fucking night to you too you charming evasive bastard

\- belphy why do you hate me so i just want to shower and sleep is that so much to ask for i mean really

\- but serious do not fuck with me and my sleep tonight save the murdssasinations for tomorrow m'kay

\- what the fuck ever i'm not thinking any more until it's morning lalala i can't hear you bc it's way too fucking late for this existential crisis shit and i'm so not as funny as i feel right now

\- GLORIOUS MAGICAL BED I WOULD WORSHIP YOU IF I WASN'T FAITHFULLY AGNOSTIC that's an oxymoron I DON'T CARE I FEEL REFRESHED AND REBORN!

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' **Ridiculously Impractical Haircut' Running Gag, Extended+Glimpse into the Future:**

 _Sometime in the future…_

I looked at the picture of a smugly smirking Belphegor and sighed.

{ _Why do you do this!?_ } I wanted to reach into the photo and shake him desperately by the shoulders. {Why are you _like_ this, oh my-}

{Is it because you know it'll annoy me? Is that it? Do you do this to torment me, knowing an _identical copy of my DNA_ is running around out there making such _poor_ life choices like choosing to ruin an otherwise very stylish spiked hairstyle by adding ridiculously impractical _eye-covering bangs?_ }

Maybe I was glaring a little at the printed ink on glossy paper by now. I still ached to scream one last reprimand at the sky, shaking one fist to satisfy an inner sense of dramatics: {I know your eyes are fine by now!}

"Is something wrong?" the person who'd graciously obliged my request to glance at it asked anxiously, upon seeing me become unresponsive for a few seconds.

{And the worst thing is, it still looks good. _Somehow_ , underneath all that hair gel. … Is he using Flames to cheat for vision somehow!? In a job like his…}

I sighed again, wearily, and then returned the photo with a grateful nod, sliding it across the desk. "No, it's- it's nothing I can change, anyway. Want something to drink? It's hot out."

{Younger siblings and their bad habits…}

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 **Clarification on Character Creation:**

To be honest, I'd just undergone a dissatisfied OHSHC resurgence when I went back into my trove of plot bunnies and found this one, with a lot of 'fur' already on the bunny. I tweaked the 'coloring' a bit to a more lighthearted tone, settled some details (third person - first person, he/him pronouns - they/them pronouns), brainstormed a definite line of plot progression I wanted (i.e. where I wanted it to go after the fratricide plot point, and what I wanted to do with the fratricide plot point), and redrew a sketch image for visualization on mobile Apple Notes (where a lot of my more recent ideas are stored).

(I refer to it not as a 'massacre' but as a 'fratricide' because I'm pretty sure it's only canonically confirmed that Belphegor [thought he] killed Rasiel and then left the kingdom and joined up with the Varia at 8 because he was bored. His canon parents should still be alive, probably.)

C's original personality (easily frightened and a sensitive paranoiac _mess_ \- who was ripped apart and put together not quite right by perception of their own _death_ \- with crippling self-doubt and guilty awareness of their own extreme cowardice and the [murderous] lengths they just know they'd be willing to go for self-preservation) made a HUGE transformation with the tweaked 'coloring' of the plot bunny. It was caked over (and in some places, entirely erased) with layers of 'learned to the point of instinctive calm' and 'patient polite mildness' with a frosting of 'innate optimism'.

I got a lot of inspiration from the slightly silly but usually quite practical and also really sincere (?) PoVs of many protags of the 'other world reincarnation' genre, which I read a lot of translations of. (I couldn't really bring myself to actually write one, though, since they usually skip over the entire childhood or at least skip over the arrival-confusion-mystery, and the characters are kind of flat [but fun!] on the whole.) The tutor thing was actually an on-the-spur addition, and I, at the time, was likely subconsciously picturing one of the personalities it would take to handle OHSHC-type 'rich kids' for years, as a profession. (So, y'know, if you ever want to request a brief flashback-crossover for a bonus scene…) And a lot of C's personality was just kind of fleshed out as I went on and wrote out the scenes I wanted in the way that felt most natural.

I also toyed with having them be referred to as 'Ras.' So now you know the horrible truth.

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' **What Are We, Vampires?' Gag, Extended+'Game World' Running(?) Gag, Extended:**

I imagined a sweatdrop. My face was certainly deadpan enough, as I looked at my brand-new discovery of a [Profile]. To be specific, the [Species Information] right under [Level: 4] and [Title Equipped: Crown Prince - _10% boost to all stats while in assigned territory_ ].

[Species: Undead - _Vampire_

(Description/Flavor Text - [Expand?/Contract?]) → _Red, dead, and have a taste for the blood of your enemies? Also, probably nobility of some kind even if not everyone else agrees you are? Well then, come on over and join the Vampire Union! We have fangtastic dental benefits and a sanguine outlook on unlife!_

(More Information - [Expand?/Contract?]) → [The _Vampire_ is a subspecies of Undead that is usually specialized for DPS or tanking, thanks to their species perk {Blood Lust}. {Blood Lust} is similar to the Berserker class skill of {Battle Fury}, in that a temporary increase in all stats and a temporary Regeneration boost factor is triggered when one's Stamina goes below a certain threshold in a fight. However, {Blood Lust} is a passive starter perk for _Vampires_ and has a secondary trigger of {Blood} needed to activate. Specifically, seeing one's own freshly-drawn {Blood} or ingesting anyone else's {Blood} invokes a boost effect granted by the temporary status effect of {Battle Genius}.] ]

Oh my agnostic god, I _was_.

I _was_ a vampire.

 _Was this seriously my undeath and unlife right now!?_

Somewhere in my psyche, I imagined a fragile _crack_ and glass chipping off some more at my blue-tinted screen of suspended disbelief.

Grimly, I hoped there wouldn't be too many bats involved. In the _castle_ , or in the entire _being a vampire_ thing.

… Explained why I woke up in a coffin and the moon was oddly bright, though.

And why Belphegor had used a _stake_.

I was still valiantly trying to ignore the whole game mechanics bit, in the futile hope it'd be like inconvenient feelings and go away if I ignored them hard enough.

I glared at the offending [Profile] with determination.

So far, no luck.

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 **[Royal Family] Brief Character Profiles:**

 **[** Name: Raynell (Carver - maiden name, drops after marrying into the royal line)

Age: 26

Gender: Cisfemale

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Personality: Bubbly, Affectionate

Intelligence: Instinctual

Height: 5' 6''

Flame: Inactive, Unknown

Blood Type: AB

Laughter: "Hihihi…~" / Giggles.

Brief History: Most beautiful kingdom-born woman of her generation. First daughter of a woodcarver couple in the capital town. Fell in mutual lovey-dovey romance with at-the-time Prince Basile when a teenager. Married, despite unconventionality by royal tradition. Is unaware that her smothering attentions on her children can be cloying, or of her adverse effect on Belphegor's inferiority complex. **]**

 **[** Name: Basile of the Red Storm

Age: 31

Gender: Cismale

Alignment: True Neutral

Personality: Cheerful, Charismatic

Intelligence: Understanding

Height: 6' 1''

Flame: Active, Storm

Blood Type: B

Laughter: "Heheheh…" / Chuckles.

Brief History: Sole surviving child of the late queen, after miscarriages, infant illnesses, and unfortunate accidents hunting, riding, and swimming. Diligent king and devoted husband and father. Sincerely mourns for his dead siblings. Respected his mother but married for love. Genuinely loves his family, but duties keep him secretive on many matters and absent for a third of the year on average, and he visibly favors his heir. **]**

 **[** Name: Belphegor of the Red Storm

Age: 4 1/2

Gender: Cismale

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Personality: Jealous, Spiteful

Intelligence: Cunning

Height: 3' 7''

Flame: Inactive, Storm

Blood Type: AB

Laughter: "Ushishishi…~" / Snickers.

Brief History: The younger twin and backup heir, deeply resentful of his superior older twin and openly favored heir apparent. A genius who picks things up quickly but has no patience for disinterests, he skips or spends his lessons picking on his sibling who has recently undergone a suspicious change of heart, and thus does not know or care about much of his birthplace's history himself. Suspects Rasiel to be either faking or possessed by a strange spirit, and is determined to get them to break character one way or the other. **]**

 **[** Name: Rasiel of the Red Storm

Age: 4 1/2

Gender: AMAB Agender (Note: Currently, is not 'out' to anyone and does not feel a need to be.)

Alignment: Lawful Good

Personality: Controlled, Altruist

Intelligence: Overthinker

Height: 3' 7''

Flame: Active, Storm

Blood Type: AB

Laughter: "Ushesheshe…~" / Snickers. (Note: Is not aware of this, as does not laugh verbally long enough to notice.)

Brief History: An unexplained transplant from another world, who woke up to a fratricide attempt in the body of a very badly-behaved brat. Is attempting to enact relationship reforms as the new Rasiel, and also covertly gather information on their situation while still pretending they are actually Rasiel. This is not going as well as they hoped for on all three fronts, but they are patient. They're also budding into paranoia, and yet still manage to think the best of people. **]**

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 **Behind The Scenes, on the Matter of Rasiel:**

 _Some time after [good night]…_

A man, handsome and fair-haired, steps into a room. He immediately strolls over to greet a woman, beautiful and fair-faced, who is already sitting on a bed and stargazing out of a window. She beams at his presence and stands up to embrace him enthusiastically, which he returns just as lovingly.

They recline. They entwine - fully clothed, of course.

They talk.

"Finally done with work at the office~? Oh, and the little talk with our dear angel~? How was it~?"

"You know how work is right before a trip. And the talk was fine. Had a lot of questions, but I was the same when I first Activated- ah, 'awoke'."

The woman pouts endearingly. "You know I hate it when you leave on trips~. Does it really have to be every month~? I mean, honestly~! Queen Ruth never left that often~."

The man placates her helplessly. "I know, Nellie, and I hate leaving you and the twins behind too. But people are happier when they get more items. It keeps them satisfied. And my mother would leave for an entire month or two at a time."

"It's Raynell, not Nellie~! Really, Baz, I honor your wish to not call you Basile like Queen Ruth did~! Can't you honor mine~?" She turns away coyly, in a mock-huff.

He knows she's just playing, and rolls his eyes fondly. "Love you, my rain."

"That's a bit better~. I love you too, my _firestorm_ ~."

"I love you more, my queen."

"Well, then I love you _most_ , and nobody else can compare~."

"What, not even my brother?" the man teases.

This must be an inside joke, because the woman giggles at the very thought. "Hihihihihi~… Oh, don't even _start_ on that, when you know better than _anyone~_."

Her partner is quiet for a moment, reflecting on a memory some distance away.

"Yes. I do." He brightens, and is lively once more, tugging gently at a curl splayed on the mattress between them. "I like you better with short hair, anyway."

They share a fond look, and then a kiss - chaste but heartfelt.

"So how _was_ my dear angel~? He was acting so strangely today~. Very cute, though - I approve~!"

"Heheheh, I'm glad you do. Razzy's fine. Sharp. Shrewd. Notices things. He'll do just fine as heir. Maybe a bit… different, but in good ways, you must admit. And well, we _do_ tend to change some after an awakening. Fixate on things, _you_ should know. Maybe it's like that? Would be good to have a fixation on kingship - helps, at least." Perhaps he remembers something, because he suddenly chuckles. "He actually tried to talk to me about his brother just now! Looks like he's really concerned about little Bel, huh? … Oh, perhaps _that's_ his fixation? Belphegor, but positively?"

"Oh, my sweet bell came complaining to me about that earlier~. He seemed very upset that my dear angel let him win some race, I think~. _Adorable_ , really, but of course I didn't say so to his _face_ , the poor darling would've been _crushed_ ~. He takes these things so _seriously_ , after all~."

"Ah, well, it's good to see them get along, isn't it? Might make things harder later when the ceremony approaches… but I'm sure they'll sort it out amongst themselves. These matters always do."

"Well, if _you're_ sure then _I_ am too, my love~."

They kiss again, then get up, to go about their separate nighttime routines before formally retiring to bed together.

The man would need an early rising and a change of clothes in the morning. A crown and a furred cape weren't going to cut it where _he_ was going.

Tomorrow, the woman yawns and finds herself alone. Her husband has already gone where she can't follow.

There are some things love just can't bridge.

And here, duty is one of them.

Queen Raynell sighs, then smiles, and readies herself for a breakfast with her two children, tied for secondmost-beloved in her tight little heart.

She thinks she might be a very selfish woman. But she is also a very happy woman, so she is okay with that thought.

She is queen to the king she wants, after all.

.

.

 **Behind The Scenes, on the Matter of Olgert:**

 _A few years in the past…_

"Ah, so you're awake?" a warm voice sounded from the doorway.

The dark-skinned man in the hospital-esque bed looked up, his hands stilling from where they'd been toying with the stiff white bandages over his face. He nodded, warily.

"Good, good! I'd hate to have dragged you all the way here just to have had you die on me." The man in the doorway, pale and blond with unusual eyes, smiled cheerfully. It was an expression that seemed correct on a face like his, but not one that matched the words he spoke.

He approached the injured man - they seemed to be about the same age - and sat down in a seat pre-arranged to be set by the bedside. Several things were pre-arranged in this situation, really, although only one of them knew it.

The one who didn't know it nodded again with caution.

They waited for a moment in silence - patient on one side, confused on the other.

Maroon-red eyes bored into tawny-brown eyes. Perhaps they twinkled, just a bit. The blond man seemed like the kind of person who would have twinkling eyes. The man with charred bits of black hair clinging to his scalp with vicious desperation did not.

Nevertheless, he spoke first. "Are… you… my… rescuer?" His voice was ragged, his spine hunched, and taking each breath for words visibly shuddered in his linen-wrapped ribs.

The other, lounging with careless ease on the chair, beamed brightly. "Why, yes I am, my good sir! What a sight you were, too: lying on the ground and bleeding Rain Flames almost as fast as you were bleeding from your face! And your back! And quite a lot of other places, too! And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to today as a very much not-corpse?"

The first speaker drew back. "… Olgert," he admitted in a low rasp, feeling at the bandages around his throat. "Of the-"

"Now, now," his rescuer chided playfully. "Olgert, was it? There's no need to introduce yourself that way anymore. You don't have a famiglia left to lay claim to anymore, do you?"

"You-!" Olgert glared at him, furious out of ingrained loyalty but humiliated by the truth he was confronted with.

Laughing softly, the blond raised his palms in mock-surrender. "Hey, I'm just calling it like I see it, right? And the way I see it… Well, if you're going to be owing me a life-debt, I think you can just call me Basile, my friend," he finished with a charming smile.

Reminded of the situation, Olgert took a deep breath - it hurt, but the pain was a stabilizing grating against his insides - and subsided, anger fading away under gratitude. Life-debts were serious business, even if this man - _Basile_ \- didn't seem intent on treating them as such. He'd only really known him for about five minutes, but already Olgert was getting the impression that Basile didn't treat _anything_ as seriously as others did.

"Yes." Another breath. "Thank you." Another breath. "What do you want me to do?"

Another smile from Basile. "We can get around to that in a moment. First… How are your Flames? I know you have them, I felt them before; they were what _lead_ me to find you, actually. Don't be alarmed-" This was added reassuringly when Olgert's expression abruptly tightened, presumably upon internally examining the state of his Flames. "-they're not permanently incapacitated. Part of that's from the recovery process. You came quite close to death, you know. But I think you'll also find that you can't access them very well as long as you're here. And the toll for _entrance_ … Well, it wasn't the ideal situation for someone already hurt and near Flame Exhaustion, but I needed to get back to my kingdom soon, so it was that or let you bleed out."

"Kingdom?" Olgert rumbled slowly, still not fully calmed from sensing his Flame Reservoir.

"Ah, yes. I'm actually a king, you see, and you're currently in my kingdom. Not a mafioso, not related to any famiglia. Don't worry too hard about the logistics of everything - I'll explain when you can actually stand up. It's a… hmm, a bit of a long story, I should say? Anyway, don't worry about the Flames thing either; I may be a civilian, but I'm already in-the-know and Active, so it's not breaking Omerta. I don't think the Vindice know about this place, anyway, and if they do, I'm not sure they can even get in! Though of course, let's not test it too much."

Basile chuckled at Olgert's wordless doubt on anything being able to block the seemingly-omniscient lawkeepers of the Flame underworld, but didn't elaborate further.

"Well, let's talk life-debts, then. _I_ don't really need anything. My position and life is pretty secure. But I love my precocious little preciouses, I really do," Basile baldly confessed. Olgert stared at him, unsure where this was going, but listening closely.

"So when my gorgeous too-good-for-me Nellie suggested that maybe having a butler around who could do a bit of bodyguarding on the sly was a good idea for the safety of our children, I thought, 'hey, what a great idea!'. She's full of great ideas, she is. She's a big part of me being king! And, well now, it just so happens that I have a person on my hands who I'm pretty sure won't have anything better to do than hang around a kingdom you won't find on any map for a few years and learn how to butler.

"Right? I mean, no famiglia to protect you, and it's not a great working environment in organized crime for a newly-independent mafioso who's still injured and probably has a couple of interested parties in making sure he's six feet under with the rest of his former backers. _Or_ you could stay _here_ and play butler-guard for a couple of years while you get back on your feet in a safe zone where nobody else can find you! Cash in that debt, and if you want to stick around after - let's say eight years? - well, I'm not complaining."

He tilted his head with a pleasant, inviting smile - ' _c'mon, ol' buddy ol' pal, play along, you know you want to,'_ it said. (It was a very moving speaker for a movement of one's lips.)

Olgert hesitantly nodded once more in agreement, still a bit skeptical of his benefactor's promises of invisibility, but willing enough to hang around for a few years. And it was true. He had nothing to look forward to otherwise. This was a pretty okay deal for a new purpose. "… Right," he managed to hoarsely cough out.

His rescuer waited with tolerant kindness for the coughing fit that ensued to be resolved.

"Excellent! And I could use someone to help me on my trips, my mother's last helper just died. You don't mind being a bit of a packmule, right? Maybe a little bodyguarding for myself, nothing serious, just keep a casual eye out for things. I don't want to die before making sure my kingdom has a worthy successor ready," Basile blithely steamrolled onwards. He paused. "Actually, I should ask about your bodyguarding experience. I mean, I was just kind of assuming with the whole 'mafioso' thing. You do _have_ bodyguarding experience, right?"

Reminded of this, Olgert froze up. Fists were clenched in the bedsheets, and he aimed a self-berating glare down at his lap. "… Yes, but… in the end… I only failed my famiglia's heir."

Entirely unconcerned, Basile clapped him on the back, ignoring the flinch of pain this generated. "Well, no worries! I know you won't fail _my_ heir, Olgert. King-to-be Rasiel, remember that name. Think of it this way: you might have failed once, but you won't fail again. Right?"

Olgert jerked his chin in the affirmative, wincing back another flinch.

"Right," he solemnly swore.

Only then did Basile remove his hand and stand up from his chair, brushing dust off of his dress pants. "Wonderful to hear! Rest up then, Olgert, and I'll ask the head butler to put you through some training and set aside a room for you in the barracks once you're cleared for exercise. You're an employee of royalty now. I look forward to your achievements."

He offered one last beneficent smile, and then left.

* * *

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 _ **About a week's hiatus to go. Fare-thee-well for now, my lovelies~.**_


	15. rabbit hole (first look)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

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/ / _Age: ? ? ?_

.

 _If I reached just a little further…_

 _They were calling me to turn around, come back, it's dangerous to go that far. The rope around my waist - I'd tied it myself, hadn't I? - tugged nervously._

' _Turn back turn back turn back turn back-' desperately keened an intangible whisper in the air._

 _But that all seemed so distant, past the itching of my eyes and the pounding in my head and the numbness of my outstretched fingers._

 _One clear thought resounded, unsteady but undeterred._

 _(My lashes wouldn't blink. My skull ached. My arm trembled.)_

 _If I reached just a little further_ …

 _I fell._

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 _/ / Age: 4_

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True to his word, the king returned 10 days later - more or less a week and a half. More of the _less_ than more of the _more_ , I should think.

Time had passed… well, not quickly in the _moment_ , but quickly enough in hindsight. I'd had my own preoccupations to tend to, anyway.

I wasn't aware of Basile's return until I saw his presence at breakfast that morning, flanked to the left by a balding darker-skinned person in one of the castle's butler uniforms.

He had very symmetrical facial scars. I was mildly impressed. The steady hand it would've taken for that skillful level of precision… or maybe just the pure dumb luck that had caused the mirror-image slashes. Never underestimate the strength of either force.

This was probably Olgert, then. My… er, butler-bodyguard from now on, according to the brief explanation Basile had given me before he'd left and left me pondering on a multitude of things.

… Butler-bodyguard sounded kind of embarrassingly privileged even in my own mind. I made a note to just let him introduce himself however he liked, if I was ever asked in the future.

Although curious, I didn't get to ask any questions at first. Actually, I had barely entered the room before I was spotted, and promptly bombarded with exuberant morning greetings from Raynell - whose name I'd filched days ago from my journal-readings, and who looked 200% perkier than usual, having reunited with her husband - and Basile - who seemed a little tired and maybe a tad scruffier, but just as joyful as his wife.

Belphegor's chin moved slightly in a motion that indicated he was rolling his eyes. His bangs shifted with the movement. He did not greet me, or give any sign he noticed my arrival, except to tighten his smile just a tad. It appeared he found his food more appealing than anything else about this scenario.

Presumed-Olgert bowed silently - a little shallower than the rest of the staff were supposed to, but understandable for his position as a personal retainer.

I returned the pleasantries politely, nodded equally silently, and swapped out my chair for one that _hadn't_ had a wet glue-like substance smeared on the wooden backing (courtesy of only one possible culprit) before sitting down.

As soon as I did, I was nearly hit in the face with a wrapped bundle.

Some desperate fumbling occurred. Clumsy baby-fingers scrabbled with short stubby fingernails for purchase on the rough brown-paper wrapping.

Belphegor snickered unhelpfully, finally taking an interest in what was happening around him.

I valiantly emerged victorious from my tussle with the Unidentified Falling Object, having _not_ dropped it. Grip secured, and unruffled-image only _kind_ of shaken, I calmly turned to Rasiel's father and wordlessly asked for clarification about the sudden assault with a deliberately raised eyebrow.

I'd picked up some things from Ms. Slater's brow-fu prowess. It _had_ been several days.

Whether it was because he was already prepared to answer, or because my deliberately raised eyebrow had just been _that_ convincing, Basile immediately replied to my unspoken question. "It's your requests, Razzy. I'll have your clothes and fruits sent to your room after your mother and I sort out deliveries and gratuity and such fussy administration details in the throne room today, but I thought you'd like some of the smaller things beforehand."

He tossed another bundle at Belphegor. Who effortlessly snatched it straight out of the air, much unlike my ungraceful catch. A fact he highlighted in metaphorical neon _rainbow_ by making _sure_ I saw his smug little smirk.

I smiled pleasantly back, emanating pride in the achievement of a younger sibling.

 _Brat._

I regretted it a bit when his smirk downturned into a scowl, and he turned away again with a huff.

… But only a bit.

Boundary fence, not a doormat. Passive didn't mean spineless.

I looked down myself, and started plucking at the plain white string tying together the misshapen bundle that bulged in some places and sagged in others. There was likely an innuendo in there somewhere, but I was, alas, a lifelong (duo-lifelong? Bi-lifelong?) 'prude' and disapproved of such things. (Unless it was really funny. And also not in public.)

Which was a good attitude for childcare but not for anyplace with alcohol. Perhaps that contributed to my distaste for drinking. Perhaps, indeed, but a more probably contributor was how amusing (and kind of pathetic-sad) it was to watch, through sober eyes, perfectly rational people do things they would never do when not drunk. I didn't blackmail, even teasingly, but I did volunteer to be the dry driver every time I wasn't already assigned it. And okay, maybe I got some free food out of it when everyone else was hung over.

At least that was one thing I wouldn't especially miss about being an adult.

Now if there had been a pun somewhere in there…

I opened the bundle, carefully smoothing out the creases and folding up the paper to re-purpose later. On my… _third_ day here, I'd finagled a small, hardy satchel out of Raynell to hold things - kept close to my body at all times, convenient, relatively safe from sabotage, and easier to shield or run away with when sabotage attempts came anyway - and now I tucked the paper and saved the string in one of its many pockets.

(I'd felt bad about asking the staff for so many things when I already had a mother who was perfectly ecstatic to gift something nice to her adorable darling. I'd felt kind of bad using Raynell to nab a bag, too, but she seemed so happy to be of help to her children that I felt… less like I was exploiting her and more like I was doing her a favor?

Guilt over that thought still made me stay longer than I'd planned to that day, drinking milk-tea and having fruity cream cake with her, as she chattered away about Basile and me and Belphegor and the kingdom and her family and all the while lovingly embroidered a weaselly-looking mink without paying attention to her delicate hands. We had afternoon tea in an airy, floral-patterned room that looked little-used. It was… peaceful, if rather surreal.

I got the feeling that Raynell was sort of lonely, sometimes. Lonely by herself, maybe. She didn't talk about any friends, and I guess when you have a kingdom without any classes between 'royalty' and 'citizen' then it can be intimidating. I knew Belphegor visited her often, and she left the castle for town or village trips every few days, but neither could happen _all_ the time. Friday afternoon tea became a weekly thing.)

Stripped of its packaging, what was left of the package was just the packaged packages inside. … Not _quite_ a pun.

I made the appropriately pleased facial contortions and childish sounds of enjoyment at my gifts. The packs of matches and bobby pins also went into the satchel, as did the rather heavy bottles of anti-itching lotion and sunscreen. The sunglasses, however - silvery rims and dark red-brown lenses, looking almost designer - I tried on first.

The queen squealed, clapped, and cooed. "So cute~! My little angel looks all grown-up~!"

I was distracted, by two things, from replying beyond a shy shrug and curl of my lips.

A. Everything looked dimmer like _woah_.

B. Belphegor had torn through his wrappings much faster with a fork - sharper than the dulled breakfast blades - and was now flicking his penknife in and out with fascination and unnervingly fast familiarity. I assumed the jar of itching powder had already been stashed away someplace I couldn't see.

I _wasn't_ distracted enough to miss noticing that whatever logos or other identifying marks had been the products were now cut away, scratched out, or otherwise eliminated. Somebody _really_ didn't want anyone to know the manufacturers of the 'specialty items'. I would bet my fancy new pair of sunglasses that every other 'specialty item' was similarly doctored for anonymity. And I was looking right at that 'somebody'.

Basile smiled.

"So you like them?"

I smiled back.

"I do. Thank you, Father."

Raynell interrupted with another temple kiss and soft whisper along the lines of missing him. (I'd given a go at milking information about the trips and the Outside and the other Flame types from her in Basile's absence, but she'd been as useful as everyone else I asked, which is to say 'not at all'. Some other topics had yielded more helpfulness… but that was getting off-track.)

I politely looked away as the king and queen melted into a chaste, and totally PG, but nevertheless _Disney_ -levels of 'sappy romantic' embrace that stretched across the table.

Miraculously, no food stained _either_ of their glowing, beautiful, gushy-mushy forms, _or_ their silk-heavy outfits.

Belphegor wrinkled his nose and fake-retched. Which was, well, _rude_ , but an appropriate reaction for his age. It was always cute when he acted his age (in a way that _didn't_ result in my constant low-level vigilance for booby traps all over the place). Everybody would prefer _knowing_ that their parents are securely and stably working out, but nobody quite likes _seeing_ exactly _how_ _much_ in love their parents are.

Your sage wisdom of the day, from the brain of your friendly neighborhood nanny-tutor-consultant©!

Hold your horses, brain. I think a milk drought is making you snippy. You just aren't yourself when you're hungry.

Well, of course you aren't yourself, you're _me_.

Woah, o-kay, _me_ , calm your jets then and drink something. I swear you've gotten hooked on milk with the way people keep pushing it at us around here.

There is no _us_ , there's just _me_. I mean _you_.

And with that traditional once-daily spat - performed without consequence and solely for my own nebulously dubious sense of humor - between me and the fragment of my psyche (or something) that I liked to semi-pretend was responsible for my more ridiculous/sardonic/contradicting thoughts over with, I proceeded to dig into my breakfast.

I mean, I _was_ hungry.

I swaddled a pear and an apple in a clean napkin to store in my messenger-style bag. On second thought, I added a banana as well - those were a rare sight on the table.

Hence closed out my now-daily routine of restocking on snacks, which Rasiel's metabolism burned through much faster than that of a twenty-something.

… Our activity levels were probably the same, though. Morning and night-time stretches and some basic fitness exercise repetitions. Running around the castle grounds - which also served to map out my understanding of the area - on the weekends when I didn't have extra lessons. I had less time to do more intensive fitness training, but also lacked the equipment and body development to do it correctly or safely anyway, so I counted that as alright in my book.

Belphegor ran with me sometimes. And by that I mean he tried to lob sticks and stones or seriously race me again, while I tested both my discipline and my lung capacity by avoiding either.

He was better for building patience and internal control than _any_ number of mindfulness meditation workshops. Likely better for interval training as well.

I mentally smiled in amusement at the thought of four-year-old Belphegor dressed as a fitness trainer and fearsomely barking orders - accompanied by thrown pens or maybe sweatbands - at his cowering students. Who, likely, regretted ever signing up or paying the registration fee.

"What," Belphegor demanded flatly, whereupon I realized I'd been staring blank-faced at him for a half-minute now.

"Sorry," I apologized automatically. "… You look like you're having fun with your knife? Um, nice knife?"

If I tried talking to Belphegor like I would, as a twenty-something, to a non-genius 4-year-old _without_ any inferiority complexes and sibling issues that are related to me personally, then he would instantly bristle and accuse me of talking down to him. If I tried talking to Belphegor like I would, as a twenty-something, to a genius 4-year-old _with_ an inferiority complex and sibling issues _not_ related to me personally, then he would instantly bristle and accuse me of nagging or patronization. If I tried talking to Belphegor like I would, as a genius 4-year-old, to a genius 4-year-old _with_ an inferiority complex and sibling issues that _are_ related to me personally…

Well, then I got lost in trying to get in-character and figure out how best to work with this complicated tangle of landmines and wired explosives who was now going to be acting as my brother for the rest of this life's stage production.

And _then_ he would instantly bristle and accuse me of either conspiring against him or acting superior or playing dumb on purpose.

Or all three.

At the same time.

Usually he went for all three at the time.

It was… not easy.

For example, instead of mollifying him by appealing to his sense of childish pride, Belphegor's jaw clenched around his fierce smile - a good hint that he was glaring - and he quickly jerked back his knife with shoulders raised.

"Ushishishi~… If you try to steal it like my toy scepter or break it like my favorite butterfly net then I'll be _happy_ to show you how _nice_ of a knife it is, Siel~."

W- What did you two _do_ to each other before I showed up?

Reasoning that he was probably honestly worried and even fearful - though he'd never admit it, what with the childish pride finally showing - of a theft from his sibling, who by all means seemed to have had a long history of overpowering him _before_ their change of heart just a week and a half ago, I hurriedly raised my palms in placation.

"I didn't mean that, Belphegor. It was simply a compliment on your new- weapon, and I'm sorry if it seemed like I was threatening you. I wasn't. And please call me C."

His smile started slipping down. It wasn't working. Ugh, I never worked well under pressure.

Fast and obvious diversion, go!

"So who is this, Father? Shouldn't introductions be made before breakfast goes on?" I queried brightly, before quickly occupying my throat with a _glug_ of milk and a choking mouthful of jam-slicked toast. Inelegant, but nobody could expect me to talk for a few moments.

 _Mm_. Blackberry season? The jam was good, and the bread was still warm.

I didn't ask if he'd eaten. Presumed-Olgert was a staff member, of course he'd have eaten at the kitchens. The Kingdom of Storm's royalty began their days with early mornings, which meant their employees began their days with even earlier ones.

"Well-" Basile broke away from basically spooning - or was it being spooned by? - Raynell, who had migrated around the table and pushed together her chair so they could cuddle across both their seats. Presumed-Olgert's face hadn't changed in any way I could pick apart, so he was probably used to seeing the royal couple's… _coupliness_. Even I was slightly taken aback, having forgotten their dynamic in the time that had lapsed since I'd last seen them together. Not that I let myself show it.

He paused.

I tilted my head: the nonverbal equivalent of {...?}.

"Where's your crown?" he asked curiously, tilting his head to follow mine, having apparently just placed what he found off about me.

There were a _lot_ of things off about me from the Rasiel he best remembered, but _sure_ , that was one of them.

It still felt like deja-vu. Except with a king asking now, and not a prince like the first day and the very first breakfast.

This was my life now, where 'king' and 'prince' were normal substitutions for 'father' and 'brother'. The minor sense of absurdity hadn't yet faded completely. Maybe in another week, or a few more months. I had time. I had _so_ much time.

I shrugged and reasonably stated, "It's heavy."

Basile nodded in understanding, fake or otherwise. His inquisitivity satisfied, he dropped the subject.

In truth, ever since Belphegor asked that on my first day as Rasiel, I'd just… kept forgetting about it. There wasn't really a benefit or even simply a point I could find. Everyone in the castle knew who and _what_ I was. We weren't allowed out of castle grounds yet. It _was_ kind of a lopsided weight for a child's head, and leaving it off further distinguished me from both before-Rasiel and Belphegor himself. Also, it didn't fit with my forehead-clear hairstyle when I'd tried, once, to put it on properly - facing front.

It wasn't even that aesthetically pleasing. A little plain, really. Understandable, for a child's accessory. Probably wasn't real silver, either. (At least I could use that for poison-testing, even if I'd already been vigilant about my food.)

And it was Belphegor's favorite booby-trapping target, though that had been dying down since he'd realized that I didn't ever _wear_ the useless thing, just dutifully cleaned it off every night before bed.

I didn't hide it, too. I left it in obvious sight on my bedside table, knowing that any attempt at hiding it elsewhere in my room would be catnip for Belphegor messing it all up, and any attempt at hiding it around the castle resulted in well-intentioned staff stumbling across it and returning it.

The trick (or one of them that I'd figured out, really) to discouraging Belphegor was to make things boring. Not easy. He didn't mind easy. But boring worked.

"Well," Basile began again, gesturing idly at stone-faced Presumed-Olgert, "this here is my good friend Olgert!"

"The king is friends with a _commoner~?_ " Belphegor, snide, immediately poked a hole in his father's starting statement.

"Now now, my darling demon, royalty can't just be friends with royalty~!" the queen interjected, thinking to impart some sort of life lesson to her willful children.

He scoffed in reply. "Ushishishishi~, a prince doesn't _need_ 'friends'."

Raynell sighed, smile indulgent. "Oh, my darling baby, _everybody_ needs friends~! Or a love, but I think you're too young yet for one of those~!" She kissed Basile's neck and he laughed, clearly ticklish.

This nudged Belphegor's falling smile into a flat-out frown. "I'm not a _baby_ anymore, _Mother._ I'm four-and-a-half and so's Siel- _C_ , and you never call _him_ a baby!"

"But you'll always be my baby boy~," Raynell responded with an unsure smile, not understanding what was wrong.

I saw all this, clear as- not _day_ , because I was still wearing the sunglasses, but as clear as ice, maybe. But I'd also learned by now that if I tried to untangle and smooth down some of the many miscommunications myself, it'd just snarl things up worse. Rasiel was too involved in the trigger-tangle of family relations to deactivate anything without stumbling over something else. My initial optimism about an insider making more progress than an outsider had proven false.

I darted a pleading look at Basile instead. He appeared to hold the ultimate authority in this household, rarely though it was employed.

"Let's settle down now, my dears. We're civilized here, aren't we? Razzy was right, introductions should be made, but I think we can condense things a bit for the sake of time. This is Olgert, a good and capable friend who owes me a bit of a favor, and is now in charge of bodyguarding my heir for the next few years. I know you two will get along just fine!"

… My plea was answered like a monkey's paw wish, wasn't it?

Inevitably, this provoked another bout of Belphegor's jealousy. My most sheepishly-apologetic half-smile did nothing to dissuade his outraged swelling of air in preparation for a tirade, no matter how much sincerity I pumped into it.

Olgert drifted around to flank my chair instead, and settled down to patiently wait for the meal to be over. (It was hard to say if his silence was personality, physical (like the scars?), professional, or an effect of the company in the room.)

I… waved. He nodded.

I awkwardly withdrew and returned to my meal.

… I envied his removal from the situation.

This didn't involve him, not really. Belphegor didn't see him exactly as a _person_ , just another point of contention on a long list of grudges he probably had etched into his brain.

Now _him_ , I didn't envy. I… well, I excised the budding resentment in my own brain whenever I noticed it, and instead focused on my empathy.

I didn't ask for this favoritism or deserve his enmity, sure, but I had to always remember that, more importantly, the same applied to him _first_. This all affected him _first_. Belphegor was treated unfairly _first_ , and was, in fact, still being treated unfairly.

It frustrated me how useless I felt in fixing any of this- this family mess, after I'd held such hopes on the first day. The parents, a large part of the cause, wouldn't listen - I'd tried with Basile, and Raynell, when confronted over the week and half elapsed, had reactively similarly with oblivious defensiveness - and all I could do was work on treating the part of Belphegor's symptoms caused by Rasiel's influence.

Breakfast slogged onwards.

As the shouting began, I slumped slightly and picked glumly at my food, appetite diminished by the sound track of this body's brother arguing with his parents.

Breakfasts without Basile hadn't been much better. Metabolism wasn't the only reason I'd gotten into the habit of packing snacks.

Deja-vu indeed.

.

.

Lessons happened.

Lessons passed.

It was all covering things I already knew - I really only paid attention in history or lore classes, and those were both unhelpful and also yesterday. Belphegor had skipped general lessons again, as he was wont to do. _I_ spent it practicing Rasiel's writing - copied from the samples left behind in his notebook - and then practicing my own. That didn't need a lot of concentration, so I considered the ramifications of now having a butler-bodyguard (butler-guard? BB? Minion? Spy?), between doodling in the margins and marking down a reminder to request paints or something next month. I wanted to take up some more skills, now that I had the leisure to do so.

It being a Saturday, I had no heirship classes. Ms. Slater yawned and stretched languidly when the clock indicated it was time for lunchbreak, cutting herself off mid-word. She still refused to let me near the bookshelves, but I was convinced I was wearing her down with daily asking.

Olgert had followed me to the tower stairs and then walked away, but showed himself to be waiting for me when I descended the stairs again after eating.

I said 'hello'. He nodded, and fell in step behind me.

Silence cause unconfirmed.

He trailed me like a bulkier shadow as I went about my Saturday routine, which wasn't much of routine when I've barely been here for _one_ Saturday. I greeted staff along the way, most of whom were either going to or coming back from the throne room with bundles clutched to their chests. They largely returned my greetings with amicability - a week and a half had been enough to prove my attitude shift to all except the really suspicious ones.

I went to the kitchens to see Cook and Reg for cooking lessons. Cook seemed to know Olgert, and they exchanged wordless nods of respect. (It was rude to interrogate Cook about Olgert when he was standing right there, so I didn't.)

I discussed the possibility of working in baking lessons, and maybe finding some unofficial teachers for more informal classes in other areas of expertise, any recommendations? Cook told me to make a list of what I wanted and then get back to her, Reg promised to help. He almost cried when I gave him an entire replacement pack of matches - waterproof, too - for the half-pack he'd lent me before, and made another promise to craft the perfect fruit tart for me. He also said I could start actually making my own food products next time we met up, whenever was convenient, and I cheered and thanked him and started plotting out an actual schedule for this things. A fellow fan of organization, he eagerly spat out suggestions and I dissected them with the thoughtful care that I'd once used for an owl pellet activity at a scientist friend's company family fair.

Olgert was observing my interactions.

I was observing him observe my interactions right back, and also just observing _him_ while I was at it. Whatever injuries from Outside that had been inflicted on him years ago, they didn't seem to be holding him back now, since he walked as easily as anyone else and breathed even quieter. How had he been injured? What would he tell me of the Outside? Why was he chosen specifically for this position?

I had a lot of questions but it didn't look like he was ready to talk yet. In both the literal and metaphorical sense.

Dinner was… uncomfortable. The king and queen were held up in the throne room dispensing the fulfilled requests and accepting 'tokens of appreciation' for the castle coffers, so it was just Belphegor, me, and Olgert. Belphegor refused to talk to me for the entire duration. I, despite being rather relieved at this, bravely kept trying to talk to _him_ anyway, with such time-proven conversation starters like 'how was your day' and 'what did you do' and 'so what do you like'.

The last one was _kind_ of answered. He looked at me - or, well, turned his face in my general direction - and coldly shut me down with a, "Not talking to you."

I didn't need ice for that burn because it was also _sub-zero_. Yikes, kid.

I disappointedly watched with resignation as he finished quickly and ran off to the make the most of the July evening's last sunrays. Another failed [Diplomacy Check]. Was a success even possible with him at this stage? None of my past charges had been quite so vitriolic or stubborn.

Give it more time, have patience. He'll come around, my brain consoled me.

I think Olgert was judging me, but when I slid a side-eye at him he seemed as perfectly impassive as ever.

Belphegor leaving meant we were alone now. The people who cleaned up dinner wouldn't come around for another hour or so, and the dining room was never really filled except - as I'd learned from a lore class - on special feastdays when non-royalty were invited to eat in there.

I kept eating for a few minutes. I _could_ start off the talk - this seemed to be what Olgert was waiting for - but I'd just proven (once again) that I wasn't the best at conversation starters. And he seemed like he had something he wanted to say first, anyway.

… Unless he was mute. Selectively or otherwise. But no, Basile would've told me that beforehand, wouldn't he have? Then again, I didn't know him that well. He could've just forgotten. But that was a pretty big thing to know about someone before setting them to protect you for the foreseeable future, wasn't it? I knew some sign language, but it was rude to just immediately assume he was deaf, and I didn't know if The Kingdom taught it. I didn't even know if he was from The Kingdom or from Outside - a thought that just occurred to me - but I couldn't really ask until I knew _how_ to ask, and-

"Why… do you treat the staff like that, my prince?" Olgert asked slowly, cutting off my spiral of indecision.

He had a nice enough voice, deep and ponderous. Grave. The antithesis to his 'friend', Basile.

I was just glad he'd turned out to _have_ a voice, so all my worries were baseless.

I turned around to face him - he'd chosen to hover behind my back again.

"You don't have to call me by a title. It's just Rasiel." It was too soon to start introducing myself as 'C', I think. "Can I just call you 'Olgert', or is there something you'd prefer more? If you're going to be shadowing me for so long it's probably best if we're comfortable with each other. I'm not sure what you mean about the staff, though; would you mind elaborating, please?"

I gave my best 'friendly smile'.

He seemed slightly fazed, now. Was it the eloquence?

"Like this, my pr- ah, Prince Rasiel. With such… friendliness. I had heard of a recent… change in attitude from you, but it seemed… strange. I apologize, m- Prince Rasiel. And- Olgert will suffice, from one of your standing."

"Nothing to apologize for! And it's just Rasiel," I insisted a little firmer, on a roll now. Reactionary responses, I could do. Go with the flow. "I'm not- someone who would use my standing to force you to comply. Unless you mean the life debt, but I wouldn't use that against you either. Are you really fine with 'Olgert'?"

Olgert blinked in surprise. "Then, 'Olgert' is really fine. You… are truthful about that. You know about the life debt, m- P- sir? I didn't expect your father to have told you yet."

He didn't appear comfortable with using a first name yet. If he had had bodyguard training, or even just butler training, I suppose it made sense. He did seem honest about it being okay for me to use 'Olgert'. I let it slide.

"Well, he did." Shrug, sheepish smile. "Although he didn't really tell me what it meant."

His expression solidified into stone again.

"It means I owed your father my life. His wish was for me to watch over and protect you, his heir and king-to-be, so I will, and I would die if it means doing so."

I looked at him quietly, considering.

"You would, wouldn't you? But you wouldn't want to, Olgert, and that makes the difference between acceptable and not. … This life debt is really important to you, huh."

His eyebrows, which had twitched upwards, twitched downwards again. "Yes. It is. It is how I was raised. Even if there isn't much honor among-"

He cut himself off quickly. I twitched my own eyebrows upwards, and then quirked my lips.

"Well, then I won't do you the disservice of rejecting it, but I think we both hope quite sincerely that such an event never happens." I changed tacks, opting for a more informal tone. "Anyway, the friendliness is because, well, I want to befriend everyone. I know some people still have trouble believing I'm not lying about this attitude change, so rest assured you aren't alone. I'll just keep carrying on until nobody questions it anymore because it'll be the truth. Sorry if I sound a little short, but this has, as you can expect, been a much-repeated conversation."

Olgert frowned. "You're not lying. You're not telling the entire truth, but you're not lying."

"What am I not telling?" I asked, part-joking and part-curious.

Olgert stood his ground calmly. "I don't know, young master, but there's something else, isn't there?"

I winced. "'Sir' is okay, but I'd prefer if you leave out the 'young master', please and thank you." I gave him another considering look. "Truth is a big thing with you, right? Me too. I don't like lying. What can you tell me about what's outside the kingdom, about Flame types other than Storm, and how resupply trips happen exactly?"

"-" Olgert opened his mouth, hesitated, caught himself and closed it. Disappointing. Expected. I hadn't gotten anything on those topics after a week and half of subtly questioning everyone I came across - the most I'd gleaned was Ms. Slater's sardonic eyebrow-raise and patronizingly drawled, "Hah, good try, brat A."

My sudden shift in focus was a little confusing, it seemed.

"Are you spying on me for my father or anyone else? Are you going to report what I do and say to somebody? Are you supposed to shut me down if I do or say something I'm not allowed to?" I continued patiently. I was getting somewhere, and he was coming along for the ride.

"No!" This, he had no problem barking out, righteously indignant. Life debt, professional pride, or something else? "Of course not!"

I smiled placatingly, resting my folded arms on my chair's backrest, and looking up at his offended expression. I took a deep breath, since I was about to let loose a lot of words in one long, rambly, verbal bulldozing explanation.

"Well, I don't like lying, so I'll tell it to you straight, I guess. I don't trust you, Olgert, and you don't trust me. Even if we're charge and bodyguard, that doesn't mean trust comes hand-in-hand with life-and-death… and we've already gone over how much we'd both prefer for the 'life' part to be more prevalent in this arrangement than the 'death' part.

"So we don't trust each other. Glad to get that out in the open first. I'm already being very truthful with you, see? And while I don't trust you, I do like you, at least, so far, and I should hope that you like me well enough, too, _so far_ , since we'll have to co-exist with each other for a rather long time. I'm not sure how long it'll feel to you, since I'm _not_ you, but I _am_ me and I'd like to be friends, because I've found that everything seems to go by faster and more pleasantly when spent with friends. Agree to get along for now, Olgert?"

His mouth opened and closed once more, until he finally corrected, "Butler-bodyguard. I went through training and finished with top marks. I can serve in the capacity of a butler as well, sir."

I smiled again, playing up the childishness as I flopped back around to pick up my abandoned fork and jab it into a plateful of salad. "Cool! I've never had a personal butler before, so would you mind doing a run-down? Feel free to brag a little so I know what to say when I talk you up to everyone else later. And maybe go into a little more detail than the whole 'life debt' thing, that'd just been terse and depressing."

I glanced back covertly, in time to notice Olgert cracking his own small smile.

He cleared his throat, and went along with it, in an exaggeratedly formal tone. He wasn't old enough to have sacrificed too much of his sense of humor to life, yet. Was that a mock-British accent?

"Well, sir… we specialize in intimidating guests with our employer's sheer sophistication, sir-"

Dinner ended a lot lighter than it started. I even managed to coax a bad pun out of Olgert before two maids - I greeted and chatted a little with Felicity and Edeva, remembering to replace the borrowed bobby pins with four new ones, something that evidently caught her off guard - arrived to clean up the meal.

He escorted me to my bedroom door, where we parted ways - me to my journals, notes, and list of hobbies, and him to his own dinner and then probably socializing with other staff until they bedded down in the employee lodgings. The next morning, I exchanged greetings with my butler-bodyguard, and headed down to breakfast together.

I already knew I could get used to this, after having gotten used to so much else, but it was a nice feeling of confirmation to have, anyway.

.

.

Time kept passing like that. Not quickly in the moment, but quickly enough in hindsight. Which, in this case, was a sight that occurred at the hind of several months.

July turned to August, then September, then so on. Summer to autumn to winter.

Nails were trimmed, wardrobe was changed, brand new sneakers - and then snow boots - got beaten up with use. Hair _wasn't_ cut - by mid-December, when the talks of our joint birthday party began, I could probably safely forgo the pins without my bangs threatening to escape my ears, and my identical trimmings had morphed into more of a neatly-kept bob.

It was harder to pick out as masculine, though it wasn't screaming of femininity either. Looks in that sense didn't matter much to me - I knew who I was and that was that, why not wear what I wanted - but it still remained an aesthetic improvement over the terrible _bowl-cut_ , so I was pleased. Softened my face, too, and made me seem more approachable. The staff didn't tense up when I smiled at them anymore - they relaxed. Good - I wasn't trying to scare people. Conditioning them to associate me with smiles, which were themselves associated with positivity, was an unexpected but desirable outcome.

… Belphegor stayed adamantly static in appearance. He had no interest in changing. The past was good enough for him, until something pulled him out or pushed him into the future.

Perhaps there was a metaphor in that.

More than just physical changes happened with the passing of seasons, of course. Roughly a half-year was a lot of time when you were downsized to a child's world.

I liked to keep myself busy, and keep busy I did.

Those preoccupations I mentioned wouldn't tend to themselves.

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… _**Buuuuuuut**_ _ **that**_ _**is for next chapter! *confetti and drum rolls and one lonely elephant trumpeting, far too long after their moment has passed***_

 _ **What do you think of Olgert's characterization and how he plays off C? Is C's characterization consistent?**_

' _ **Rabbit Hole' was supposed to be called 'Mystery Deepens', which is why the Deviantart cover picture looks different. I might make a new renamed cover.**_

 _ **.**_

 **[Artifact Examination: C's Bag of Holding**

 **Time of Examination: September, Y10 of Basile**

 **Physical Examination -** _ **A durable, tan leather bag that latches shut. Has one thick strap. Bears resemblance to a messenger bag with many pockets and different buckles. Small, but still slightly oversized for a child. An etching of a crown is on either side.**_

 **History Examination -** _ **Was ordered from a town bagmaker and paid for by Queen Raynell to gift to her preparation-keen child.**_

 **Content Examination -** _ **Always stocked with writing paper, two pencils, a pencil sharpener, a capped pen, a couple of clean napkins, several unused linen bandages, a length of rope, and a roll of duct tape. Usually restocked with fruit. Currently contains a mostly unused pack of waterproof matches, a few bobby pins taken out of their package, a collection of candle stubs, a dented pocket watch, an old pair of gardening gloves, a secondhand gardening knife, a crumpled sunhat, three smooth skipping stones, and a pair of good-quality sunglasses.**_ **]**

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 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _I wasn't sure, but that was the glorious quality of having options: the more you had, the less sure you had to be about what you planned to do with them. Roadblocks worked themselves out better with a construction shop than with a toolbox._


	16. rabbit hole (second thoughts)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

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/ / _Age: 4_

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July to December, mathematically speaking, was a linear progression of time categorized into 5 chunks of more or less equal months.

July to December, mentally speaking, was a non-linear hopscotch game of time corralled into uncountable memory fragments of arrayed clarity.

And by 'uncountable', I didn't mean 'a hyperbole and synonym for countless'. I meant 'literally unable to be counted', because the number invariably varied with each try. Anyone familiar with the difficulty of recalling exactly how much they remembered of any span of time was undoubtedly also familiar with this- _uncountability._

One of the clearest, and thus, correlatingly, the most memorable memories, was the first 'class' Basile lead me through on passive Flames training.

He had a bad habit of referring to it, interchangeably, as 'sensing', 'circulation', and 'attunement'.

.

.

"That seems a little bit… confusing, Father. Don't they all mean… rather different things?" I pointed out politely, from where I was seated criss-cross applesauce about two yards away.

We were in the shade, under the leafy crown of some ancient oak. He'd decided to pick a nice and overcast weekend to make good on his promise of passive training, having already asserted that active training was a no-go for now. I wasn't complaining - I rarely did aloud, but the refreshing breeze quelled any whisper of internal dissent as well. It was cool and dark enough for me to forgo my customary outdoors-shields, though my sunglasses and sunhat were both snugly resting within my utility bag.

On the pre-emptive advice of the king, it was lying on the ground some distance away, to avoid Disintegration via accidental Flames discharge(s) during training. Basile had followed up with a hasty assurance that such an event didn't occur often in solely passive training, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Reclined languidly against a tree trunk, Basile beamed.

"Less different than you'd think. They're all exercises for stabilizing and nurturing your Flames core. Which is what sort of stores your Flames reservoir? Heheheh… I'm trying to explain it the way _my_ mother explained to _me_ once I'd gone Flame-Active, but I suppose it's still rather vague," he sheepishly admitted, at odds with his carefree laugh.

For once since he'd re-entered the castle a few days ago, he was apart from Raynell. She, I assumed, had been covertly assigned the mission of keeping Belphegor busy and away from the secretive Flames activity.

Neither parent seemed to ever interfere between us otherwise - a fact I was beginning to resign myself to, for better or worse. I was tempted to think 'for better', considering how disastrously it always went whenever they _did_ interfere, but the truth of the matter was that they were also the only authority figures Belphegor even _begrudgingly_ obeyed.

Except Slater, maybe, but she wasn't an authority figure. That required her to expend the _effort_ to authorize… something, anything.

However, the secrecy of the topic made me wonder why _Olgert_ had been allowed to accompany me, when all other staff had been ordered by royal command to vacate the area and _keep_ away until sunset.

It was a reclusive patch of the castle grounds - a long walk from the castle, with no nearby produce or ornamental gardens requiring maintenance, or other smokehouses, gardening sheds, etc. - so the evacuation hadn't been much of an inconvenience to anyone, but it was definitely odd enough to take note of. That Olgert, upon arrival, had merely been asked to stay vigilant for trespassers and maybe pace a perimeter around us, with no other conditions for staying within eye-sight and easily within hearing distance, was… even odder, and therefore even more worth taking note of.

 _I_ hadn't even known of the impromptu 'class' until the queen had led Belphegor away from breakfast - Basile had then stood up, told me that Slater wasn't expecting us today, and asked me to take a walk with him - due to how hush-hush and concealed the matter had been.

I attributed it to his connection to the Outside, whatever it may be. … I hadn't figured it out yet, okay? It'd been roughly a week, sure, but he wasn't cracking.

Basile was also still stonewalling any questions about what I was starting to coin the Mystery Triad - other Flame types, the Outside, resupplying trip mechanics. It was enough to discourage me from trying more uninvited office visits after my first few tries, which inevitably resulted in a very welcoming and pleasant small talk session where I was provided warm milk, cute anecdotes about his courtship of Raynell (and _her_ courtship of _him_ ), and not much else.

On the other hand, asking - pestering? - Olgert daily in random intervals for information proved convenient enough both time- and effort-wise, since he was almost always shadowing me, for me to persist in the habit. It also, arguably, provided more of a pay-off; although he was nearly as careful a stonewaller as Basile, albeit far from the blond's mastery of simultaneous cheerfulness, Olgert tended to take pressure off himself by diverting to conversation points about shared observations or interests, which were more useful in establishing camaraderie than any number of parental courtship anecdotes.

(Less cutesy, unavoidably. Sad to say, but people-watching profiler comparisons, combat positioning and hypothetical morality scenario dissections just didn't match up to the sheer love-story-in-real-life vibes that BasNell gave off. (BasRay? RaySile?) They felt like one of the reality TV shows my past teenage charges sometimes favored - except unscripted, despite how it sometimes seemed _more_ scripted in blatant public displays of affection.)

Basile snapped his fingers, drawing me back in. I hadn't let my drifting show, so he wasn't reprimanding my inattentiveness. It looked like he'd just had a spark of inspiration.

"Okay, take a look at this stick," he instructed genially, picking up a nearby fallen branch with one hand for demonstration. I'd already been focused, but my eyes involuntarily widened upon seeing him light up a fistful of Storm Flames with the unoccupied hand. "Some basic Flame theory: Flame-Actives are denoted by their ability to actively use their Flames. Flame-Inactives may be able to benefit from unconscious passive Flame usage, but they aren't controlling it and can't extend their Flames out of their body like this - into visibility. If you're Flame-Active then you can automatically see Flames, but if you're Flame-Inactive it's kind of a toss-up depending on your Flame Sensitivity, which is like your potential for Activation. Flames affect you regardless of if you're Sensitive enough to see them, but passive usage of Flames can kind of… mitigate the effects and counteract with your own Flames, if you're good enough.

"Storm Flames have the property of Disintegration, and since we're a line of single-attribute Storms, that's _all we're going to go over_ -" Basile smiled teasingly at me, already anticipating what I was thinking. I smiled back, feigning abashedness, and not the… _concern_ I was feeling at having been so easily read. "-so they're very specialized for offense, but can be a good offensive defense as well by Disintegrating opposing Flames. The strength of your Flames in a contest depend largely on three factors: experience, Purity, and volume.

"Experience, of course, determines how you use your Flames and handle yourself. Any and all training provides experience. If you burn out fast and messy and push yourself to unnecessary harm because you were impatient or improperly trained, that's not going to impress anyone with brains and the wisdom to use 'em. Purity can't be trained - it's set from birth, since it's a result of your natural wave energies, and can't, to my knowledge, be altered. Flame Purity is most commonly synonymous with Flame 'strength', because the purer Flames overpower the less pure Flames in any straight-up fight, no contest, 100% of the time… as long as it's a completely even match-up, which is exactly as common as it sounds. And volume, which _can_ be trained by expanding the reservoirs of your Flames core, is just the quantity of Flames versus the quality of Purity."

He paused to see if I was following. The lecture had gone by fairly quickly, but I'd absorbed worse from university professors. I nodded encouragingly, absently marking another notch on my mental list of 'how many circles has Olgert paced around us.'

The fistful of Storm Flames, which had been 'burning' steadily around his free hand, was transferred onto the tip of the held branch like a very bizarre candle being lit with a human matchstick, where it immediately began 'burning' much less steadily. Huge swathes of wood were being eaten away rapidly - not scorched and blackened, but just Disintegrated into flaky ashes, like- like that knife at my eyes on my first night as Rasiel.

We watched in silence as the branch Disintegrated down to a pile of soot-like substance lightly dusting the healthy grass. The hand that had previously held the branch didn't twitch as his Flames sunk back into his skin, leaving no trace of having prior existed, were it not for the remnants of the sacrificed wood.

Basile took a deep breath, evidently preparing for another mini-lecture. "That was an example of me actively using my Flames to Disintegrate a physical obstacle. Flames aren't quite physical, but they can interact with each other just fine. Your own Flames will recognize their wave energies and won't affect you, but foreign wave energies are fair game. Every living being has their own wave resonance, regardless of their state of activity, so living beings will naturally have more resistance to Flame effects. Of course, such resistances scale with sentience and the associated Flame usage.

"Wood is basically already dead, and that branch had broken off already as well, so it had very little resistance to Flames. It also wasn't Flame Conducive; it couldn't channel the Flames well. There are certain materials that are very Flame Resistant and Flame Conducive, but those are… rare, and hard to get. All the royal crowns are repaired and replaced with Flame Resistant metals, and there are some royal artifacts only the current ruler can access that are Flame Conducive, but we won't get into that until your active training starts in… let's not talk numbers yet. I'll decide when you're ready, after evaluating your passive training performance. Ah, yes, what's wrong, Razzy?"

I lowered my hand.

"If your own Flames won't harm you, how did past ancestors Disintegrate parts of themselves when practicing recklessly?" I prodded 'innocently'.

If I was hoping to catch him in some sort of mistruth, I misspoke.

"Ah! That's the point of the passive training!" Basile declared with an effervescent grin. He gestured animatedly as he spoke - he was, in many ways, younger than his years. Which, I'd discovered sometime in the past two week of my new existence as Rasiel, was 31.

"Your Flames _do_ naturally recognize and 'sync' with your wave energy. Call it 'resonance' or 'balance' or 'signature', it's essentially the same. However, those ancestors I talked about were messing around shortly after their Activation, without any prior training, and jumping straight to active usage without learning about passive usage. Thus, the Flames they called up were- distorted. 'Out-of-tune' with their wave energies, due to their panic when they found they control the Flames. As such, they _didn't_ recognize their own wave resonance and Disintegrated some bits until their wielder managed to calm down enough to- shut it off, so to speak.

"'Flame Self-Rejection' is _rare_ ," he emphasized, tone dipping briefly into uncharacteristic seriousness, "and a culmination of extreme emotional spikes, which can affect your wave energy output, and an already unstable Flame core, which can be a result of a very sudden or violent Activation. Which is what passive training is for - by training oneself to sense, circulate, and overall attune to your own wave energies, when you actively manifest them as Flames, you'll have already practiced using your Flame core and become used to stabilizing it through any such spikes. Passive training will also help with moderation and control of your Flames in their unrealized wave energy form, and purposefully concentrating or circulating them can benefit you by Disintegrating specific intrusions or generally flushing out foreign Flames. With a hyper-offensive property like Disintegration, passive Storm Flames combating active Storm Flames will at best Disintegrate the attacking Flames before they break skin, but that's dangerous enough that we won't be testing your passive Flame defences until… later."

"Later?" I arched a brow playfully. That was clearly a reference to the Mystery Triad.

Basile winked. "Later-later. No springing more surprise questions on me now, please!"

Stretching with a yawn, he straightened his posture, signaling that the time for talking was almost at an end. "Some last minute tips: Internal circulation by itself is pretty instinctive and regular, but you can seize control and micro-manage it for faster or more deliberate results. Hands and feet - the extremities - are usually easiest to internally concentrate wave energy, and thus, externally manifest Flames. And people can vary in what or where feels simplest for them build up their internal Flames a.k.a. wave energies, which Activation can especially play a big part in. Right, time to try it yourself, Razzy! Just follow my instructions now!"

We then proceeded to spend the next half-day fruitlessly going over what Basile referred to as 'passive training exercises', and what I - with exactly as much accuracy and far less obfuscation - referred to myself as 'meditation exercises'. Prior mindfulness sessions had set me up well enough for the 'emptying my mind' part, but the equally vague and faux-straightforward 'feel your Flames' part insisted on eluding me.

Lunch was dropped off with Olgert, who had noticed someone waiting respectfully on one of his perimeter prowls. We all sat down together - well, we were already sitting, but Olgert joined us - and had a pleasant picnic respite, with Basile regaling his attentive audience of two with more cutesy BasNell stories. I was attentive because when I listened I _listened_ out of politeness. I think Olgert was attentive because this was his employer and he had really no other choice, even though I was fairly certain that after associating with Basile for as long as he had, he knew all of these tales by heart now.

At dinner, Belphegor seemed slightly suspicious, but remained mollified by and smug over Raynell's distractions of the wonderful day they'd shared in town, just the two of them, for some mother and son bonding time.

I smiled pleasantly and encouraged her to go on, enjoying a peaceful dinner for the first time in… what felt like far longer than two weeks.

Was this 'adjusting'?

.

.

Despite daily morning and bedtime meditations, it took until September for me to feel my Flames by myself.

I was prevented from discouragement by my own determination, and also the patient weekly walk-throughs Basile held with me, which became as much of an established tradition as Raynell and I's (and Belphegor's, when he deigned to accept our standing invitation) Friday teatime chats.

They were random, and after I'd proved I had a handle on any accidental Flame discharges, they usually took place in his office - a show of trust I treasured, even if I half-suspected he'd be rather glad to be rid of some of the paperwork strewn around.

More meditation ensued.

Internal sensing had be done, until I'd familiarized and attuned myself 'sufficiently' to my Flames' inherent 'feel', and their natural circulation patterns.

(A great effort was undertaken for me to not mentally place air-quotes around more of those terms, given how… mystic New Age-y it all sounded. But no, this was simply the logistics of training 'soul fire'.

… Soul fire. [I couldn't help myself.])

It took until November to pinpoint my eyes as the place my Flames concentrated most intuitively - even if I'd been expecting it ever since the king had mentioned Activation playing a part - and it wasn't until early December that I managed to successfully take control of my Flames and circulate them myself. Purposefully concentrating the Flames was… still a work in progress at that point.

(Not until the _last_ week of December did I finally succeed in _that_ aspect.)

We had tea and pie in my father's office to privately celebrate my first purposeful bout of self-control in a… different sense.

A more public affair couldn't be done without breaking the silent Flames taboo, no matter how much paternal pride Basile seemed to exude upon hearing the news. I wasn't at all dismayed by this, being far more interested in his promise to start me on the basics of active training on my birthday.

(I tentatively voiced my concerns about the- _isolating_ effect this would have on Belphegor, which he quickly hand-waved away. He 'reminded' me that Belphegor had been looking forward for months to the family trip to the kingdom's sole morgue that Raynell had promised last birthday, clear across the large island that the Kingdom of Storms sprawled possessively over. It would require two days and an overnight stay - if I made it clear a few days ahead that I was withdrawing out of lost interest, then Basile could just confirm with his wife prior and then claim unforeseen extra work on the day of, letting him stay back without linked suspicion.

This only sprouted more concerns in me, unrelated to the possible exacerbation of Belphegor's resentment-fueled inferiority complex, but I kept quiet on those and agreed to this disconcertingly sly plan with a nod and another sip of my tea.

It needed more milk.)

December was… a lot of firsts, once I reflect on it.

First family crypt visit - which I could've done without, considering how many of the rulers died of Flame Exhaustion and how many of the inheritor candidates died young.

First fully cordial conversation with Belphegor that lasted longer than five minutes and was held without witnesses, a thrown object, or a verbal insult spat worse than a seriously sardonic 'heir' - which provided my mood boost for the next week and a half, considerably assuaging my plague of doubts about whether I was beating my head against a steel wall of barbed wire or merely a brick fence of prickly thorns.

First meeting with Cook's _pet_ \- which… well… ah, um, that is to say…

.

.

"So what do you think? She's a beaut, eh?" Cook beamed the doting beam of over-affectionate pet owners everywhere, which twisted at the leathery skin of her face in a way that inexplicably softened her usual unimpressed expression.

I strained to maintain my polite smile and inch away without looking like I was inching away at the same time. Cookery twitched her nose at me from her lofty vantage point, cradled regally in a cage of her feedstress' tanned knuckles.

"Th- That _sure_ is a _rat_ you've got there," I managed to stammer out with wholehearted honesty.

It _was_ a _very big_ rat.

"She's almost due for her next litter!" Cook continued with uncharacteristic cheeriness, although possibly this was from schadenfreude relishing of my blank-faced uncertainty. "Nice treat for the castle stables' cats! I think it'll be her last, though, she's getting on in the years, two-and-a-half is practically old age for a rat, maybe I should pick a successor from her pups-?"

I stood, helplessly frozen, as Cook chattered on about the finer points of pet care and Reg apologetically wrung his hands from the side, but made no move to rescue me.

Traitor. See if I call him 'Teacher' ever again.

.

.

… which Reg or Felicity or _somebody_ could have _warned_ me about.

Not that I lost my cool or anything, not at all, it just would've been nice, if, you know, somebody among the throngs of kitchen workers or staff who took their meals there had decided that maybe just _perhaps_ I should have been prepared for such an… event.

Ahem. What else?

Hmm…

First 'course completion'?

Now that I suddenly possessed all this free time, with no professional obligations or many social concerns (i.e, employment, networking, utility bills, rent, taxes, buying my own clothes and food and entertainment, making time for catching up with friends over drinks or a meal or at parties, etc.), I'd had significant fun filling it up. Lacking the tempting distractions of really any electronics at all, I was driven to find more manual routes of keeping busy.

It was satisfying, trying to pick up the sort of hobbies I'd always considered wistfully, but had never found the opportunity to find a willing teacher to match with my constantly shifting schedule of open hours.

I hadn't been any union member, and since I'd enjoyed finding fulfillment in my work, somehow I'd ended up making excuses to fit in more job contracts rather than more hobbies. My main excuse had been that I was in the prime of my youth, and should exploit that; hobbies could wait for retirement, hopefully an early one if my exploits were profitable enough.

Well, I suppose I could think of this current existence as 'retirement'. I had certainly retired from my past life.

Cooking was one of the few useful life skills I'd managed to cross off my list before waking up Rasiel, and even then, it could always use more expertise - hence my kitchen visits. I didn't just socialize during those, although relationship building was a useful skill to practice in it's own right.

Yoga had been crossed off, too, because it was one of the few exercises I could multitask with keeping children content and amused while also getting in some fitness for a jam-packed life. And of course swimming, because it would be embarrassing to drown in a ten foot pool, or for that matter, the ocean within fifty yards of the shoreline. I also offered calligraphy as one of my available tutoring classes, and of course I knew what the scouts' attempted to teach us about survival despite being in a suburban area-

Losing track of the point, brain!

A- Anyway, there was still _plenty_ to do. Baking, gardening, hiking, drawing, painting, parkour, sculpture, origami, running, cards, knitting, sewing beyond a basic back-stitch, embroidery, woodwork, metalwork, whittling, archery, photography, rowing, chess, checkers, learning an instrument other than the piano, shooting, darts, self-defense, more languages, stargazing, programming, juggling, lockpicking, skiing…

 _Well_ , I _could_ go _on_ and _on_. But I think that's enough for my conscious narration to finish tracking down that horsing-around point and beat it to death.

It was also probably quite obvious that I'd spent considerably more time researching and discussing hobbies with acquaintances than I did on trying to accomplish those hobbies. To be fair with this comparison, the latter was a pretty low bar to set, and I constantly found pleasure in discovering what everyone around me was up to.

People liked talking about themselves, so it was fortunate that I liked listening. They were usually far more interesting than they personally insisted; at least, that was my experienced opinion.

I didn't regret my fast-paced and efficiency-maximized twenty-something life lived. It'd been very productive and gratifying in its own way. But I couldn't say the same about letting such a chance to accomplish some of my dreams pass by me _now_ as a child with a whole future ahead of them.

Besides… I was still reserving cautious judgement on that entire ' _king'_ role this life was holding me to. It couldn't hurt to prepare the best I could for… _alternative_ vocations.

 _What_ 'alternative vocations'?

I wasn't sure, but that was the glorious quality of having options: the more you had, the less sure you had to be about what you planned to do with them. Roadblocks worked themselves out better with a construction shop than with a toolbox.

Regardless, suffice to say, once I got a little more settled into a routine, it felt like a productivity haven. Or maybe a productivity retreat, like those weeklong camps some of my past friends complained about being roped into for company reasons? Whichever involves more vim and vigor in the face of taking a break from one's expected responsibilities, I suppose.

Of course, a large portion of my list was… not attainable in The Kingdom, for obvious reasons of supply and demand. That still left a lot of things I _could_ get busy seeking out a teacher to, though, especially with the medieval-fantasy vibe going on around me.

I settled on a daily rotation, after taking into account that weekends held no heirship classes, leaving me with seven or eight hours available instead of the usual three or four.

.

.

Sundays were for visiting the kitchens for cooking and baking, and then the gardens connected out back for gardening.

Mondays were spent hiking around the castle grounds - my new, involuntary stomping grounds - to both explore and exercise. On the really hot days, I took advantage of the castle's nearness to the island kingdom's shoreline, and readjusted myself to swimming in a differently shaped body.

Tuesdays saw me dropping in on the guards' barracks on Tuesdays for cards, both the dealing and games of such.

Wednesdays bore sacrifice to pure research. They were my mid-week 'shut-in' days, reserved for the sole purpose of burning metaphorically through the writings of the royal library, and reviewing literally all of the past week's relevant observations to analyze for any hint about the Mystery Triad, as well as the lesser - but no less plaguing - curiosities of Rasiel's life. I kept up a secondary line of consciousness focused on investigation almost constantly, but Wednesdays were the moments I locked myself into my room, had dinner sent up, ignored Olgert's quiet concern, and pulled all of the frayed faint threads together into a patchwork picture-in-progress.

On Thursdays I crashed in on two of the maids' shared room for sewing, which was complicated enough by itself to take all of the short sessions I could nab without feeling guilty about crashing on their rest break. Nevermind embroidery or knitting, I had a brand new respect for the effort that went into anything with stitches before the invention of the sewing machine.

Fridays, I applied towards self-taught arts practice, first with plain paper and easily secured charcoal, and then - once the July resupply requests had been processed - with my children's paints set and canvas sketchbook. Raynell was delighted to serve as my model, and whoever else in our little family that showed up to the open afternoon appointment never minded (Basile) or noticed (Belphegor).

I used up my Saturdays in the risky pursuit of self-testing techniques on the full-sized dartboard I'd unearthed from Rasiel's dusty cadre of toys, at least a fourth of which I suspected to be stolen.

That was a dangerous venture, not because the darts were sharp or I hadn't picked up anything from dodging all of _Belphegor's_ throws, but because for some reason I kept thinking it would be a good bonding exercise to recruit him for. Maybe it wasn't as absurd as it sounded; looking past all of the unfriendly fire, blatant sabotage, excessively smug 'tips', and chancy precedent of encouraging violence, I think it was doing him some good to be placed in the superior 'teaching' position for once. Beyond his joy at genuinely outperforming his twin in an area - which seemed to narrowly beat out any of his suspicion at genuinely outperforming his twin in an area - was it too sanguine of me to glean some innocent happiness from him?

… Perhaps I was just seeing things. But I didn't _feel_ that way in my heart of hearts, and more importantly to me, I didn't _think_ so. The weekly darts engagements became as much Belphegor and I's 'thing' across the months as the random Flames check-ups and the Friday teatime chats, though most of the time was whiled away in hopeful silence until he grew dissatisfied from something or the other and left.

.

.

When looked at as a whole, the fraction of skills I could fit in training for was pitiful. One could even call my informal and spread-out strategy uncharacteristically not worthwhile, since it took until December for me to 'graduate' out of basic guided sewing lessons into autonomous practice, and several hobbies weren't the sort that you ever Ranked Up from [Beginner] to [Intermediate] without at least a couple of years of dedication, and even then you had to deploy time and effort on upkeep of your proficiency level.

But _believe you me_ , I _was_ still making progress on that mental checklist. And I fully intended to reach the bottom, for that coveted [Jack of All Trades] title achievement! I was happiest when starting off as fresh-faced rookie, since I was second-happiest when being told that I knew enough to keep working at it on my own.

I didn't need to be perfect or even very skilled - specialization wasn't my goal. Just versatile, adaptable, and competent enough to pass muster was good enough for me.

It was probably an unpopular worldview, but I didn't desire mastery of a few when I could be average across the board. That wouldn't win me any gaming tournaments, but I preferred to believe it would help me gain an advantage in _Life: The Reality_.

With so much to do, I missed the Internet much less than I thought. Convenient access to information that had been crowd-sourced for veracity, I missed like I would a limb. Maybe even two limbs. Three limbs, on the nights when I retired to bed frustrated with a total lack of calculable advancement (this was typically a Wednesday hallmark).

Social media pressuring me to keep up the socializing even on my downtime or risk being considered a bad friend when I'd really rather pick up the phone and just call some people to closely meet in person, I missed like I would… clipped nails. Occasionally convenient, but mostly easily overlooked.

Olgert didn't seem to mind shadowing me around everywhere. If anything, he seemed to have fun. He was certainly not getting much use in the 'bodyguard' department, so that just left him in the 'basically-hired-buddy-advisor' department.

This handily covered a variety of tasks. Such as tasting my kitchen results, and approving my garden harvests; playing hide-and-seek under the excuse of 'evasion and detection strategy', lecturing on survival tips and tracking techniques, and suntanning under a beach umbrella; being clumsily dealt into a card game with coworkers more his age, and sweeping the entire thing with a lesser poker face but a greater game sense; stepping in as a butler to gallantly serve apology 'sorry-for-taking-up-your-break-time' tea, before sitting down for his own break; and serving as an omnipresent art model for idle rough sketches and intensely detailed paintings - as much as I can do with no prior knowledge and a children's watercolor set, anyway.

He… disapproved of my Saturday darts (and inevitable dodging) sessions, though. Olgert being fundamentally the professional he was - despite his gradual relaxation and casualness around me as I proved I was intellectually and maturity-wise not far from a peer - he displayed his disapproval by lurking in the corner of the empty practice room with a slight frown and a tensed wince whenever a 'stray' dart was flung too close to me. Luckily, disapproval didn't stop him from giving far more helpful advice than Belphegor once Belphegor had left for the day, irrespective of his own self-professed inexperience with the activity.

Although… he never interfered between Belphegor and I either, regardless of how he expressed his doubts in private about my… course of action regarding him. I was starting to wonder if all of the staff had been given private instructions to not do so.

Insert my obligatory paranoia warning/concern, etc.

Thanks, brain. Glad to see you're not getting lazy at all.

Anyway, the day just didn't have enough hours in it anymore to afford more consistency for my hobby undertakings, even if I wanted to.

Between the social side of things (trying to get closer to Belphegor, befriending staff, playing covert peacemaker in family situations); the investigative side of things (trying to get closer to the truth of where and when I was, searching books, playing covert information-gatherer in possible situations); and the training side of things (trying to get closer to wielding the epic destruction powers of mystic freakin' SOUL FIRE, maintaining fitness, playing non-covert EXP-beggar in opportune situations), I was exhausted every night and slept like the dead.

Er, once I stuck rigidly to the recommended minimum ~11 hours of sleep for Rasiel's age, anyway.

I learned my lesson after that… mildly embarrassing event in September.

.

.

All my long nights studying books and practicing various other useful skills eventually caught up to me. I thought I'd been clever cheating the biological needs of sleep with the mindful tricks of running on near-empty, but… no dice. Even well-fed, with no particularly taxing activity, it seemed I couldn't operate as Rasiel on an average of eight hours a night for several weeks on end. Eventually, repercussions caught up.

… There was a brief, short-lived spat of sleepwalking that came with autumn. I'm not saying it was _me_ , but, well, not saying something doesn't stop it from being true.

In children, sleepwalking wasn't too uncommon; more common than an affliction of adults, anyway. Sleep deprivation was considered to contribute to its likelihood of happening, too.

I never dreamed, and always slept very soundly in my bed, despite my quickness to wake at the knock of a door, so I hadn't noticed getting up and walking about my basic daily routine of the castle (bedroom → dining hall → study tower → dining hall → library → bedroom) before returning to collapse in bed. I _had_ noticed the persistent soreness of my feet in the mornings, but had wrongly attributed this to not getting enough sleep to be as physically refreshed as I insisted I was mentally.

Which, in another interpretation, wasn't exactly wrong by itself - I _wasn't_ getting enough sleep, after all.

Luckily, my strain of sleepwalking was benign, and ended in little humiliation or harm, save the embarrassment of being foolish enough to get tripped up by my own, oxymoronic, dumb smarts. No shameful losses of self-control, attacking passerby, or random screaming; just the acute awareness that I was _better_ than this, and yet, I _hadn't_ been.

By the time Olgert had caught me in the act - a dozen days after it started - and shaken me awake, prompted to keep an overnight vigil by the worries of some of the staff who'd seen me up and about, the worst that had happened was a few scared night-shift cleaners who thought they'd seen the ghost of an ancient royal child.

(I combed out my hair before bed, and I didn't wear my hairpins to sleep. I also certainly didn't sleep open-eyed. My pajamas were entirely black, too. Combined together, all they'd have glimpsed in the dark of night was the floating head of a young child, with hair shaggily fallen in what looked like the traditional royal eye-covering style - if you squinted a certain way, at any rate, or if you were just really scared and unused to operating against your circadian rhythm.)

Afterwards, chagrined and having learned my lesson in trying to carry out an adult's schedule in a child's body, I revised my use of time to allow for less activity before bedtime, no matter how much productivity was being lost with a full eleven hours of rest.

Instead, I shifted much of my reading and what Flame meditation I could pull off into heirship classes, where Slater and I had an understanding of sorts. I could do whatever I pleased during my time under her supervision, provided I didn't thereafter pester her with questions about material she'd already lectured about in said time.

Theoretically, this understanding extended to regular classes as well. However… losing focus in those classes, at least when Belphegor bothered to attend, had its own problems.

.

.

… It wasn't like I didn't make an effort to include Belphegor into my routine. I did!

I _did_.

There were repeatedly extended offerings of food products from Sundays. Those he persistently turned down with de-escalating degrees of hostility until around mid-August, when either my own persistence broke through or he spied enough on me to determine that the food gifts were perfectly fine and untampered with.

There were repeatedly extended offers for him to come along and join in, or even just watch and opt out of actual participation. _These_ were flat-out ignored in staggered stages of interest: he'd been sporadically gate-crashing Friday tea since early July, but Saturday darts lured him in sometime in late July, then came Sunday kitchen- and garden-work, before occasionally we'd cross paths on Mondays and he'd tag along while pretending he _wasn't_ , and soon enough he was gate-crashing card nights to see how far he can blatantly cheat until someone dares to call him out on it.

I think sewing either frustrated or bored him enough to discourage attendance. Probably for the best. Felicity had more backbone than most of the guards, but inflicting Belphegor on Edeva was cruel and unusual punishment.

Even those appointments weren't steady or dependable, of course. Belphegor had his own life; he wasn't a slave to mine. Just because I didn't see him didn't mean he didn't exist; object permanence, see? I knew this, and yet…

Some days he refused or had better things to do. Some days he came just to sabotaging my work and/or terrorizing the enlisted teacher(s). On the _really_ good days, I hardly knew he was there, except for the disappearance of some materials as he tried to figure the task out himself, or the vanishment of the best of my food products.

… It… was... _difficult_ , cultivating a non-negative bond between Belphegor and I.

An unfamiliar experience to me: I'd always found that amicability, at the very least, was easy to foster. I usually created connections quickly by simple principles of being patient, being helpful, and being a good memorizer.

If I treated people like they were important to me, then they soon would be, and they would reciprocate. That was human nature. Remembering faces, names, anecdotes, likes and dislikes... these formed the initial acquaintanceship, and further investment resulted in respect, clear communication, personality attraction: the fertilizer elements for bearing the fruits of friendship.

When asked in the past, I'd summarized my relationship philosophy as 'just be nice and express an interest'. Not everyone I forged a connection to were actually strongly important or specifically interesting to me, but if I thought of all people as generally decent and deserving of friendliness, then they didn't need to be.

Just because I wasn't or couldn't be close to each and every of my acquaintances ever made didn't mean I didn't still care to some degree for them. I would mourn for a stranger less than I would a friend, after all. But that didn't mean I didn't mourn at all. Or that that mourning meant less in some way.

A more... cynical friend, tipsy from a bad break-up, once told me, "You get people to like you by making yourself convenient and available and useful, so they prefer having you around and making their lives easier, than not. And of course people will enjoy feeling like they're a better or more interesting person than they really are, which obviously happens when you _listen_ like- like that. Like you really mean to listen."

He was an aspiring investigative reporter, I think. And he hastened shortly afterwards to clarify that his 'you' did not mean 'me' in particular, although I was pretty sure I'd kept any reactive expression out of my 'dutiful sober listener' face.

… I started getting him to switch to water after that. He'd had enough cheap vodka for the night. It hadn't even been that bad of a break-up - it just felt that way to him because it was with a mutual friend.

I knew because I listened. I'm always surprised by how many people don't.

I… didn't like thinking that cynically. It just dragged you down, sinking paralytic claws into the places it hurt and doubted the most, weighing more the more you lingered.

On how much of our human interactions were just social constructs and empty labels placed upon pragmatic manipulations for one's own benefit. On how much falsified importance relationships and emotions really held beyond primal biological necessity. On how much it _mattered_ that people had personalized personas for every other person, and maybe even themselves.

Misanthropy wasn't worth it. Worth what? _Anything_.

I refused to believe people were that selfish. Maybe one or two, or a few, but people weren't generally unkind at their very core. They just couldn't be. I'd met too many kind people to think that way.

I wasn't naive.

(Even if I was, technically, blind - in direct sunlight right now, anyway.)

I was aware that not all of my past friends and coworkers and other such acquaintances felt exactly the same as I did them. Some were pretending, some just held different emotions. Each had their own reasons. And I was aware that Rasiel's title of royalty and my apparent age still colored most - probably every - new connection I've laid down. But...

I wasn't naive, but maybe hopefulness was just another word for it.

Ugh. I didn't like thinking this cynically. Like I'd suspected before, cynicism worsens the longer you linger.

A slow poison of the personality.

And now my mood was soured rotten for the moment, great.

… It was difficult, it was going to _continue_ to be difficult and grueling and likely thankless, but many things are. That shouldn't stop anyone from doing them, however.

It never stopped me before, and it wasn't going to stop me now.

So I held onto that hope of friendship with Belphegor. It was not unlike taming a very, very, very feral cat, I tried to tell myself.

This did not help much in practicality, since I had never had experience with any feral cats, but the general wisdom I gained out of my blood, sweat, and tears put into occasionally petsitting told me thus: just be patient, don't show weakness, don't show threats, and do keep giving up a _lot_ of treats.

Well, the first came easily, the second I had practice with, the third I was overthinking, and what else were my food offerings if not the fourth?

Humans were just more developed animals, right?

… Hahhh. Perhaps I was on to something.

'You couldn't teach an old dog new tricks, but a puppy is forgivable for anything short of murder, and maybe even then.' Was that the thinking of the staff?

It seemed plausible. And it explained why they were so much easier to turn around in opinion than Belphegor, who was, in loose context, the constantly downtrodden littermate now finding that their source of hatred and competition had been replaced with essentially a stranger.

In the months that'd passed since that first, eventful day, I'd long since gotten to know, like, and befriend all of the castle employees. I thought I knew Belphegor, and I believed I would grow to like him, but befriending still seemed to be a mountain's peak in the distance. My continual and patient overtures of peace had done little to drain the simmering pot of envy and hate that was contained in him. Or maybe that _was_ him.

Oh, a campaign of kindness wasn't _entirely_ ineffective: he tended to react to my courteous, unaffected responses with confused suspicion rather than plain scorn nowadays, and he'd begun easing off some of the pranks in favor of spending (very unnerving and startling when I finally turned around and spotted him) time studying me with a ruminating frown on his face.

Not _all_ of the pranks, and he still reacted to my presence with displeasure much more often than not, but it was a start. For one, for _now_ , he hadn't tried another assassination attempt.

Although he _had_ broken out the knives - and whatever conveniently aerodynamic object nearby - for seemingly random throwing fits of impulsivity, which were actually _more_ unpredictable than any planned endeavor would've been.

… Not that I had any reason to believe he'd even planned the _first_ endeavor. For a given meaning of 'planned'.

And 'first'.

And 'endeavor'.

… Sometimes I think that, if I weren't myself and therefore thoughtlessly privy to all of my thoughts already, they would be a very confusing place to navigate.

A small, _small_ start on the road to converting a murderer to a hater to a stalker to a stranger to an ally to a friend. I figured I was maybe seesawing somewhere between step 1.5 and 2.5 on that 6-stage plan for a lifetime of success - or, rather, succeeding in _securing_ my life. Changing _Belphegor's_ life along the way was a conscience-demanding and conveniently-aligning side-quest.

And look at my success in integrating him into my routine! That- That _meant_ something, didn't it? It had to. Convincing him to hang around me more was the lead-in to convincing him to gather less biased firsthand evidence and form the conclusion that Rasiel had really changed and hey, maybe toss them a bone in this whole 'making amends' thing?

I could place a lot of blame on the parents for making my campaign so difficult. Every time I hoped I'd made some sliver of permanent progress in convincing him I'd really mended my ways, the queen or king would pop up later and unravel it all back with a cheerful, oblivious-seeming remark on how _fantastic_ and _great_ Rasiel was and how Belphegor, silly boy, could really do to learn something from him, he's the _beloved of the staff_ now and _takes such an interest in so many arts_ and _is so inquisitive_ and _isn't he just the best?_

So yes, I'd made progress, but it all seemed distressingly… tenuous. Temporary. Like a perfect combo streak, when solo-ing a massively overleveled Boss, that could break at any momentary step out of line and land you in not definitely _fatal_ but definitely undesirable trouble. With the fatal part still nipping at one's heels.

If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought that they were _purposefully_ trying to drive resentment between us.

As it was, though, I could tell that their affections _were_ genuine, and quite convincingly equal towards us both, even if they were more vocal and focused about it on me.

Perhaps due to necessity, Belphegor tended to drift defensively towards his mother whenever given the choice between the two. She wasn't really good for him, either, but she was probably better in comparison: her lack of 'my heir' being name-dropped every few sentences (although Basile had reformed considerably in that sense since our first office talk) gave her unabashed love more of a chance to shine through his prickly knife-edged shell.

It was a safe assumption that he'd found out about the weekly Friday tea from her, since Raynell herself had cheerfully let slip that he often came to her bedroom or accompanied her on garden walks to complain and confide in her.

Another safe assumption would be that he'd initially started coming as well to make sure I wasn't somehow _wooing_ her over to favor me as obviously as Basile, since… that was more or less the exact wording of the accusation he flung at me after dragging me into the hallway after our first trio-shared Friday meeting.

I could've denied it, but it wasn't like he'd have believed me at that point in time. And a sub-goal was for him to be around me more anyway, opening opportunities for non-aggressive discussion and shared activity.

So if I'm remembering correctly, I just smiled pleasantly and invited him to come join us more often and find out himself.

This suitably enraged him enough for him to establish an attendance streak that lasted a month, until he unavoidably tired of it and started coming just often enough to maintain the possibility of a future visit.

… Sort of like his lessons attendance, really. Not the hobby ones I recruited him for; the ones our parents had hired an actual legitimate - albeit not quite diligent or remotely resembling professional - teacher for.

It was a coin flip if he'd even show up to general classes.

Belphegor was lazy - something I couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

When he didn't feel like spending another couple of hours blatantly ignoring whatever lesson he found boring - which included basically everything except the more morbid sections of biology - and trying to break my shell of non-reaction with petty harrassments, he just skipped.

I soon pieced together that Belphegor spent nearly his entire free time just napping, or practicing his aim with makeshift weaponry, or, well, generally doing whatever caught his (adrenaline-fueled?) fancy at the moment, having the attention span of his physical age. Hunting, swimming, climbing, cliff-diving, collecting animal skeletons...

Lazy… no, not quite right. Was this… slothful behavior?

I considered.

It seemed more accurate than purely 'lazy', since it wasn't that Belphegor didn't feel like putting forth effort for _anything_ at all. He liked napping, but as far as I could tell that was just a way to fill the time when he was discontented with doing other things.

Rather, Belphegor only cared about what he found interesting; he would eagerly fling himself into his hobbies and little child adventures, but the moment something - or somebody - _bored_ him, he more or less disregarded it as something completely irrelevant to him.

For people, this wasn't necessarily a step up: being irrelevant meant being disposable. Barely worth even regarding as a human being. And certainly not as a _fellow_ one.

… Belphegor was an active and healthy child, to be sure, but he couldn't at all be called a social or disciplined child.

Our parents granted him free reign - arguably even more than they did me. I couldn't get him to respect any of my nonexistent authority as a barely-older sibling he hated - or as of December, dubiously distrusted at best. And everyone else was too apathetic (Slater, Cook?) or afraid (everyone else) to enforce any semblance of rules on a child made effectively immune by his parentage and class status.

This resulted, predictably, in Belphegor being too used to having his every whim more or less indulged. He was smart - genius IQ smart, if the word of the king and queen was to be taken at face value - and had unsurprisingly grown to connect this leniency with his royal title. To him, being born a prince was all the justification he needed to do whatever he pleased, and the rules of the lower-classes didn't apply to him.

And me outranking him as a crown prince by chance of an earlier birth by less than a _day_ just _infuriated_ him, since it was essentially justification for all the causes of his (still very much present, despite my attempts to placate it) inferiority complex.

Presumably, was an example of the hypocrisy inherent to the term "fairness," seeing as he only had a problem with rank justifying favoritism when it applied to people _other_ than himself and the ones he - for a certain sense of the word - _liked,_ i.e. our parents and nobody else. Even then, he only seemed to like our parents when they benefited him in some way.

He was exactly the kind of spoiled brat I disliked, but with the added con of me not having the backing of a hired guidance figure when interacting with him. Not that I disliked him in _particular_ , knowing what I knew about why he behaved the way he did. There was a reason, however, that I believed I would _grow_ to like him.

None of this dampened my determination to modify his behavior from what seemed to be a standard conduct disorder to vaguely socially acceptable behavior. At this point, my drive to do so seemed less of a requirement for co-inhabitance and more of a point of principles - and okay, maybe just a little pride. But it did... wear out the edges. I was constantly repairing the fabric of my shifting motivations with stitches of patience and steel-spined resolve.

So yes, Belphegor's childhood days were, in one word, 'idyllic.' But I think...

No, I knew that he'd still be happier without a brother. Whether we're talking July or December.

Well. I'd just have to _keep_ on working at changing that, wouldn't I?

Think of the first fully cordial conversation mood boost, C. You've got this. Or, at least, you've probably got this the most of anyone else in the castle, so it's really like you've got no other choice than to get this.

… Thanks, brain.

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.

Speaking of small but encouragingly significant (but still pretty discouragingly small) progress, the procession of our relationship went a little like this…

 _From the (Non-Physical and More Metaphorical) Relationship Notebook of C:_

 **July:** Booby traps everywhere. Pranks all the time in various stages of viciousness. Competition challenges are issues nonstop. Vehement verbal denial of my truthfulness in trying to be a better sibling. Omnipresent smile immediately sours when I draw near. Siel/C ratio weighing in around 90/10. So many things thrown at me and attempted fights that I quickly learned to dodge or block out of necessity.

 **August:** Booby traps everywhere. Pranks are slowly deescalating on the viciousness scale. Competition challenges take a sharp decrease of discouragement. Vehement verbal declaration of his intent to 'break through' my 'act'. Still seeing a lot more scowls and frowns than even strained smiles. Siel/C ratio weighing in around 70/30. I start flinching less at 'surprises'.

 **September:** Booby traps everywhere. Pranks lessening in both quality and quantity as his starts getting more and more bored. Competition challenges trickle to a halfhearted occasion. Verbal promises to 'figure out what you're up to' are not as vehement as before. Strained smiles fight back for ground against the outright-negative expressions. Siel/C ratio weighing in around 60/40. I'm dodging on reflex when I notice now.

 **October:** Booby traps stop being replenished in my room, and also stop targeting just me as Belphegor widens his crosshairs to search for more entertaining 'playmates'. Pranks diminish further in scope and volume. Competition challenges stop, unless he's reminded by a convenient set-up. Verbal exchanges are limited to plain insults and taunting now. Strained smiles still in the minority of [Expressions Shown In Rasiel's Presence], but the percentage of sneers is tentatively deflating. Siel/C ratio weighing in around 50/50. Dodging is slowly becoming unconscious instinct.

 **November:** Booby traps have become accepted in the entire castle grounds as an everyday omnipresent annoyance to live with. Pranks start looking like absent-minded afterthoughts, performed out of habit. Competition challenges start looking a little less antagonistic and more his way of signaling he's in a bad mood. Verbal exchanges don't improve in terms of malicious teasing, but they do extend longer and occur more often. Frowns are now the dominant majority of [ESIRP], but have shrunk from teetering-on-bared-teeth to simply confused-and-mildly-annoyed. Siel/C ratio weighing in around 35/65. I can blindly sense something (or someone) coming at me with 50/50 accuracy now.

 **December:** Booby traps are starting to reach worrying heights of creativity as Belphegor works off some bottled up boredom, no longer being able to get his kicks by mutual antagonization. Pranks are basically a harmless character quirk by now, and restricted to solely the 'mild annoyance' rather than 'potentially seriously harmful' level. Competition challenges cease, their futility having finally gained acknowledgement. Verbal exchanges starting on tentatively neutral notes - meaningless conversation and idle chatter and mutually complaining gossip - are reciprocated more often, although they still aren't instigated by Belphegor out of his own free will. Smiles are no longer strained but just warily watchful, even if he still flips to a frown when approached more often than not. Siel/C ratio weighing in around 20/80. My accuracy in dodging things I can't see is - hah - seeing more improvement, and I've managed to _almost_ completely control any flinching.

.

.

... Yeah. I was pretty sure by now that throwing things was one of Belphegor's (many) unhealthy expressions of affection.

('Many', as in his expressions of emotion are usually unhealthy, not 'many' as in he expresses affection a lot. Because _no_. No he does not. Oh _boy_ would that be sue-worthy misleading in court.)

Or maybe respect? Like saying, 'I know you're capable enough to dodge whatever I test you with, because if you aren't then you don't deserve to be associated with a prince like me anyway.'

Although when I put it that way, it was equally plausible that Belphegor just liked trying to catch people off guard and snicker at their flailing reactions. It seemed very 'him.' As evident by the f- _freakin'_ jumpscares. I prided myself on excellent self-control, but I was certain that Belphegor, having failed to elicit hostile reactions from me by way of hostile provocations, had settled for eliciting _any_ kind of reaction (jolt, jerk, stifled shriek, etc.) from me by way of suddenly appearing in my blind spots.

On the bright side, a few more years of this and I was confident that no sneak attack or surprise pop-up would ever make my resting-poker-face falter again!

See? Always look for a positive.

… That _was_ happiness I gleaned from him during the later autumn/winter Saturday darts sessions! I knew it!

And _Olgert_ said they were a _bad idea_. Which they still probably _were_ , but one of the _better_ bad ideas I was left to approach Belphegor with. I took a risk and it paid off. Not very much, admittedly, but any net positive was preferable to the usual net negatives that my earliest approaches inevitably yielded.

Mood boost activated x2.

* * *

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 _ **You've probably picked out the naming convention for the 'Rabbit Hole' chapter titles, huh? It was fun researching number idioms that made sense in two-word phrases, and also helped me separate the mini-arc outline into chapter outlines. Three guesses what the third chapter will be called? (Don't worry, it's coming out faster than this one.)**_

 _ **In which C talks a lot about a lot of things, but mostly Belphegor, and never gets to any point, except for Belphegor. This chapter is about 3k words and thus 50% longer than it should be, and likely ⅔ of it was Belphegor.**_

 _ **In other news, I just got my first piece of fanart from the ~lovely~ Cypher (actualcypher), of RaCel with their new hairstyle! Found on their tumblr after the same moniker, and on their Instagram at . Check it out it's greeeeeeaaaaaat~! *gushes***_

 **.**

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _I was aghast._

 _My stunned tone sounded flatter than a proper question. "You're killed if you try to leave."_

 _Reg laughed, politely mystified._

 _"No, no. Killing implies a killer."_


	17. rabbit hole (third degree)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

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/ / _Age: 4_

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I'd mentioned Wednesdays were a pain, right?

Perhaps I should revise that to Sundays.

The common link: my consistent failures in the investigative side of things, compared to the previously reviewed social and training sides.

It wasn't that I wasn't getting _anything_. No, no, I was getting a _lot_.

 _Too_ much.

I'd had a friend or two who went into vaguely investigative-related fields. One's passion was forensic sciences. The other… ah, she'd always been kind of… interested in people. Not like I was interested in people, not exactly. … Well, in the most recent memory I could salvage from my erratically rubbed-out canvas of them, she was a very successful if young and infamously… unusual private investigator.

… She wasn't a bad person, and we were good friends, but shall we just say she provided an excellent role model for what I should _not_ let me myself become and leave it at that? Yes? Good.

Anyway, their combined sage wisdom on the matter - i.e. their combined complaints everyone grew tired of hearing in tandem whenever we held friend-group meet-ups - was that in most investigations, the problem wasn't too little evidence, but too much. You had to sort out the fluff from the clues, and then from there, try and ascertain which clues were actually clues and not false leads or complete coincidences. The chaff from the wheat, and the fodder feed from the market goods, so to speak.

If Wednesdays were unpleasant reminders of exactly how little of importance I'd gleaned from countless journals and royal library documents, buried under daily anecdotes from long-dead ancestors with a shared twisted sense of humor and far too many tax recounts, then Sundays were unpleasant reminders of exactly how little I _knew_ of what was important and what was not.

I had no idea what I was looking for specifically, and constantly ran the risk of skipping over something vital. Asking the wrong questions, and making a mountain out of a molehill while overlooking the towering ranges behind my metaphorical back.

And of course, verifying the secondhand accounts scribed years, decades, and some of them centuries ago was impossible. I could only submit to my innate trust of the written word and take the information for granted, beyond screening for the most obvious of biases.

(When you had a class divide so gaping, there was a certain attitude fostered. That shared twisted sense of humor meant many of their daily anecdotes were… anecdotal in a way that I felt deserved annotation as well. I held the understanding that Rasiel, before, and Belphegor _now_ , were both pretty archetypical for their family line. … This was not a pleasant understanding, nor a good one.)

The problem with Sundays… was not a problem, no. More of an… oxymoronic convenient inconvenience?

Sundays meant kitchen days, according to my established rotation schedule. Usually Cook stuck to her word and left the bulk of instruction to her nephew, preferring herself to take the time to work the gardens and prep things for my later instructing _there_ , which she oversaw more personally.

Midday on a Sunday was a slow-paced time slot; most of the staff pounced on the opportunity for their own leisure time on a day out in the closest town, once the lighter weekend duties finished in morning. Even the guards were reduced to a skeleton crew - even more for show than usual, since by all means the Kingdom of Storms was peaceful, prosperous, and had no neighbors to make enemies of.

Which meant that most of the time, cooking and baking lessons were just Reg and I puttering around in the curiously empty kitchens. Occasionally others passed through to pick something up, drop something off, or serve out disciplinary duties slammed on them by Cook for perceived misconduct, but usually it was just us two messing about by ourselves.

Responsibility was a look the fresh-faced cook's apprentice wore well. He was a greenhorn at the job, but all the more enthusiastic for it at being 'entrusted' with educating a member of his idolized royalty.

Unsurprisingly from his first impression and all the others after all, he was a chatterbox, and the kind of person who'd likely been unappreciated by his childhood peers for being deemed a 'know-it-all'.

In other words, ideal as an expository dispenser.

Reg was a reliable source of information. Not a reliable source of _reliable_ information, but that was one-part because I had no basis of comparison for reliability and fact-checking and could only rely on my miserably doubtful gut, and two-parts because while he loved to talk, he loved to talk about _everything_. He was a veritable grainmill floor piled high with chaff shells. The husked seeds could only forlornly hope for a lucky passerby to notice them.

… That seems to be a rather skeevy way of describing him, even in my own mind. I wasn't just- _using_ him. That wasn't my… style. He was a good person. Moral, intellectual, and slightly desperate for acknowledgement and attention in a way I could both empathize and sympathize with.

(After all, empathy - understanding how and why another feels - was not always the same as sympathy - justifying those feelings and reasonings to be valid and correct.)

I respected him as an individual, and liked him as a friend. He was one of the fastest employees to disregard discomfort with my titles and past reputation as Rasiel - even if his fervent admiration for monarchy was only marginally better - and he didn't treat me like my physical age. Nobody quite dared to actively patronize one of the frighteningly clever 'genius princes', almost taking it for granted that nobility were on a different level by nature, but there was always that- _dissonance_ evident in most of their conflicted eyes. Like when it was unofficial curfew for the children, or when sweets and placations were utilized to mollify.

It'd be shamefully embarrassing if I ever warranted such measures with my supposed (not entirely certain; I tried not to think too hard on differing mental and biological influences on development) maturity, but I made a note that Belphegor enjoyed creamy candies best for future reference.

So, being useful to talk to didn't cancel him out from being nice to spend time with.

Although, Reg wasn't exactly…

He was many things, not all good and not all bad, just like everyone else in the world, but one thing he decidedly _wasn't_ was 'questioning.'

(Talking to him often made me feel more uneasy afterwards about the objective truthfulness of what clues I had expended so much effort and concern on over the subjectively long months.)

Curious, perhaps, but he respected the ingrained rules of society and their associated authority to the degree of devotion. I didn't have the right to complain when this benefited me as a researcher in how he never asked too deeply why I wanted to know something. However, as at least an acquaintance, his… worldview worried me.

More so when I realized, through much discussion with other staff and some townspeople, that his outlook on life was about the same as the general citizenry, if slightly more rigid. But that was later on, and I'm trying to stay at least somewhat chronological in my reflections upon the hopscotch game of July to December.

In that case, the first important investigative-related memory I recalled from our interactions was when I came right out and just asked him, "Do you know what the 'Outside' is?"

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It was… sometime in the earlier half of July. Unpleasantly warm, but not really sweltering just yet.

"No?" Reg shrugged, unconcerned confusion evident. He was only paying a half-mind to the exchange - the bowl of salad parts in his hands was giving him more trouble. Cooking always came before baking. Can't ruin your appetite with dessert, right? "Sorry, but what are you getting at? It's just the opposite of 'inside', isn't it? Ah… what was that word…"

I clambered up on the high stool set up for my use, to pass him the smaller bowl of freshly-mixed dressing from scratch. He nodded gratefully, the absentminded furrow in his brows resolving itself over his glasses.

My assigned task currently finished, I turned away in disinterest from mundanely observing him combining it all together, and decided to continue the conversation from the sink where I washed up the stained cookery and utensils. "'Antonym' is what you're looking for, I believe. And yes, sorry for being unclear; I was referring to what's outside The Kingdom?"

"Nothing!" This was sufficiently surprising to cause him to turn and look at me directly, setting down the dressing mixture from where he was evaluating its quality.

"… At least, nothing of importance," my mentor for the hour continued on after a moment of thought, concluding with absolute confidence, "-since The Kingdom is all that matters."

I could barely imagine that level of unconditional trust he must have had in his words to utter them like so.

"You've never wanted to leave? To get out of here and take a look around, see what else there is in the world? … There- There _is_ something else out there, isn't there?"

There had to be, for Basile to vanish on his trips. And Olgert, who still accompanied him during those - one of the few exceptions to his 12/7 butler-guarding service. (The other twelve hours I spent in my room, either asleep or shortly about to, and he went off to do his own thing and rest in the staff quarters.) At the moment, in fact, that was the reason for his absence; usually he hung back and watched over any lesson sessions, sometimes offering his own bits of commentary or aiding in grunt work - any more refined kitchen techniques being taken over would defeat the purpose of me being taught them.

… Unless my less-favored theory of alternate dimension/void/magical summoning/creation was true? Basile had scoffed at the resupply method being called 'magic', so it was heavily unlikely, but nothing had been said definitively about another method to prove it impossible.

Reg's halting reply of, "Well. … Yes? Maybe…? I don't think anyone knows except maybe royalty."

"So the resupply trips do take place in the Outside?" I rushed to confirm, probably too eagerly.

"… I don't think anyone knows except maybe royalty," he repeated woodenly, looking increasingly uncomfortable as we lingered on the subject. Was it a lesser form of the Flames taboo apparently in place? He quickly diverted attention back to the first of my string of skeptical questions. "Why would we leave?"

It wasn't discomfort now, just puzzlement. The question itself seemed to register as an alien proposition. "The Kingdom is good enough, isn't it? Our rulers reign benevolent, and we're all provided for and productive. We have all we need and more with speciality requests. What else is there to want?"

… Now _that_ was _impossible_. "Nobody's _ever_ left? _Ever,_ in all of remembered and recorded time? You're born here and you die here and you're all happy with that? Nobody? That can't be true."

Recorded history seemed to just… _start_ , at some random point in time who-knows-how-long after the first king reigned, and oral tradition became hazier the further back you tried to track. The journals had allowed me to figure out that there were at least three or four centuries of 'records' (in the loosest sense of the word), with at least a dozen or so rulers, but who knows how many didn't keep private accounts or hadn't been archived in the royal library. The yearly numbering system and the lack of numbered titles seemed to be devised specifically for obfuscating the exact passage of time.

And for all I knew, they were.

Reg continued to be puzzled, but almost indulgently so, like he had no clue why I would even think this way but was prepared enough to humor me. "Of course not. Well, no kingdom-born, anyway. And there are no records, not really. … Royalty doesn't count, if there's even any proof eith-"

He abruptly cut himself off, panicked. At implied disrespectful speculation? He coughed awkwardly, and then resumed his efforts towards the salad, picking up what looked like a carved long spork, avoiding my wide-eyed attentive gaze. "… A- Anyway, better to live here than die leaving."

It was a good thing the bowl I was scrubbing at the moment was also carved. One made of more fragile material might have chipped or cracked upon impact when I dropped it and missed the sink basin.

The other blond squeaked high in distress and immediately hurried to pick it up fussily. Almost unconsciously, I found myself passing the bowl I was handed along to the counter beside me. The mechanical motions barely registered, with my mind focused on a more pressing process.

I was aghast.

My stunned tone sounded flatter than a proper question. "You're killed if you try to leave."

Reg laughed, politely mystified.

"No, no. Killing implies a killer. No," he continued on assertively, seeing nothing wrong at all with what he was saying, "all the people who've ever tried to leave - very few, as you might imagine, considering the kingdom and the warning stories, maybe… one or two stubborn layabout fools every generation? - have just died at sea. Their boats usually drift away with the tide, but occasionally a body will wash back up, days later. It's dangerous trying to go further than you should, you know. That's why fishermen always turn back before they get out of sight. The more superstitious ones call it 'the judgement of the Two', punishing those who're ungrateful enough to desert the kingdom being kept safe by them, by removing their protection."

… We'd already exhausted the topic of the Two by now.

Although quite knowledgeable by kingdom standards, Reg wasn't a believer in the faith of the Two, and as a result, knew quite little. What he _did_ know, he was scornful of when relaying, and I'd ended up seeking religion lessons from another source: one of the stablehands - Kelsey with the flaxen hair and burned-spiderlily eyes. What I could gather from his patient explanation had been vague, but that was because - he'd admitted it himself - the mythology was pretty vague as well.

There had probably been something before, and there was maybe another religion before. The Two didn't concern themselves with grand tales of world creation. They were more like… patron figures, specific to The Kingdom, and the stories that sprouted up around them centered on that.

(I would have expected a vaguely Christian - Catholic or otherwise, there were too many variants for me to differentiate, having never gone into religious education - vibe to be running throughout the place. The isolated island of a kingdom certainly seemed to hold a mostly historical European-ish attitude and appearance. But no, apparently not; even though there seemed to be a tacit understanding of hell, heaven, demons, and angels, there wasn't any overtly religious lore behind them when I asked. No Bibles or other religions' writings, either. If they'd ever existed, they'd long since been destroyed, and with the only avenue for book entrance being through the royal resupply trips, it didn't look like I was going to receiving any concrete evidence for my multitude of theories, per the sadly established norm.)

Nobody quite knew when it started or how, but it became an accepted fact over the generations that as far back as could be recalled, some things had always happened. The citizens of the Kingdom of Storms had always resided on their island, had always had their ruling royals, and had never wanted to leave.

The _very_ first king (or maybe queen, some disagreed on this point) had made a pact with two passing otherworldly creatures (interpretation of this popularly leapt between gods or Fae) to cast a blessing upon the land. Which ensured (or, depending on conflicting narratives, _established_ ) the kingdom's lasting prosperity, and also gifted the royal bloodline with the potential to call up fire from their souls.

(Or maybe _because_ of the royal bloodline with the potential to call up fire from their souls, the passerby Two had stopped to oblige a request for a blessing. There was further disputement on this.

… I had asked about the Fae, and was pleased and confused that despite history seemingly having changed a lot across worlds to account for the presence of soul fire and magical creatures [?], European mythology had stayed the same, even if this might no longer even be called Europe.)

And from there, the Two, although having left in body to continue whatever mysterious journey they were one before being interrupted, were generally believed to have left some part of their presence in the kingdom as protectors, or guiding spirits of some sort: an echo of their first work of magic still resounding around the island and shielding it from any that would come from the unknown waters beyond and attack it.

(Interpretation of _this_ popularly leapt between sea monsters, to other such mirror-kingdoms in their own shielded bubbles, to different worlds entirely, to more otherworldly creatures - be they kin of the Two or otherwise.)

No formalized institution or ritualized ways of proving faith had risen up around the mythos, because the royal family had harshly dissuaded any signs that might lead to a budding religious civil war, since not everyone treated the faith of the Two as a fact. This was despite the public perception of how the ruling generations seemed to randomly alternate between those that kept the faith and those that spoke of it dismissively, if at all.

I'd asked around the entire castle some more, but that was basically what everyone else knew - there may or may not have been something _more_ before, there may or may not have even been a first king, there may or may not have been a pact or a trade whose price was unknown, the Two may or may not have been real, there may or may not be actual magic beyond royal fire, and the Two may or may not have been a couple or maybe siblings or maybe two faces of the same being - and they all paid homage differently.

It was a religion that lent itself very widely to personal interpretation, so they did. Some even preferred not to call it a religion at all, euphemizing with 'personal worldview' or 'set of beliefs'. No 'holy book' was ever officially printed, due to the lack of an organized authority to decide what was and wasn't 'official', and also the difficulty of getting a printing proposal approved by royalty. They usually only allowed non-fiction use of the big printing press - kept locked up under guard in the castle - for their own semi-regular issues of new vocabulary lists or some other remedial 'general knowledge' publication that everyone was mandated to read 'updates' on when they were distributed by town.

(It explained a little about the vaguely-modern, vaguely-aged, language-property dissonant, patchwork society of The Kingdom. Not a lot on _how_ and _where_ they got the 'updates' to be printed, but I was pretty sure - and pretty _tired_ \- of attributing it to the same mysterious 'Outside' that resupply trips may or may not - but _probably did_ \- go to.

[However, the royal family did, by tradition, heavily encourage that people with an aspiration for writing devote their efforts into fiction and poetry, and subsidized the printing of a monthly newsletter full of the citizens' approved submissions. I was hesitant on whether I should view this as a scheme that was genuinely intended to safely promote the arts and entertain the people, or if I should instead see it more cynically as a plan to distract the busy people with competition that gave the appearance of entertainment but really just let one power decide what was 'good' thinking. Being principally opposed to personal cynicism, I chose to not overly examine the - hah - issue.])

People generally treated worship of their faith pretty laxly here. It fit with the general laidback philosophy of living that I was recognizing from the Kingdom of Storms. There was no pressure from competitors to speed up, so they grew complacent on life and accepted the handouts with the rules.

Ms. Slater, when asked, pronounced her disinterest in attributing any more power to whatever might or might not exist in a higher plane by giving credit to them, and refused to rehash lore lessons we'd apparently already gone over. I took this to mean she was also a disbeliever.

I returned to the conversation at hand.

"What about royalty? You said they were different, that they could leave," I pressed on, the sickening unease from his casual dismissal of death having not waned. "Is it related to the resupplying trips?"

Reg suddenly looked nervous again. For him, that was just a return to his regular state of being, and I wasn't being mean about thinking such: he outright admitted it himself quite readily. "I wouldn't know that! That's a royal secret! You don't question royal secrets!"

It seemed to hit him who he was almost shouting at with panic. "Uh, no offense, Prince Rasiel!"

After a few more attempts at insistently returning to the topic flopped miserably, I conceded for now that he genuinely didn't know any more, and sighed. It looked like I wasn't getting anything else out of Reg for today, either, no matter how (alarmingly, in both senses of the word) helpful he'd already been.

"It's just Rasiel," I wearily corrected, backing off. "We're friends, aren't we?"

It was probably a little sad how much I cared about his response to this casual statement. I was, presumably, someone with the mental maturity of an adult. There _were_ memories I possessed of having gone through multiple faded friendships.

It spoke volumes about my continuing desperation for solid confirmations of friendship in an alien place, even as I was making more headway with the staff by the day. It was only July, and already I was growing to think of this castle and its denizens as 'home'.

To my further alarm, this made him so emotional he started sniffling with tears.

A moment of empathy ensued, as I realized that Reg's life must not be full of camaraderie either - he was significantly younger than most of the other employees, still only a few months into his job, and I knew he was worried about being seen (not wrongly) as a product of nepotism, having only gotten the apprenticeship on the strength of his aunt's head position. This must be especially true, if he was so excited to have a child a decade and change younger than him declare him a friend.

… Alternatively, he was just overwhelmed by having a member of his idolized royal family to be announcing them in a relationship of future influence.

I… chose to believe the former.

I calmed him down, and we celebrated this heartwarming moment with a bowl of frozen fruit salad - perfect for the midmorning heat of deep summer. The dish of the day - regular, non-fruit salad - thankfully hadn't wilted too badly by the time we finally returned to finish it up.

(Belphegor disliked his greens, so I didn't try offering any when we crossed paths later.)

.

.

Of course, the natural follow-up to this was to ask more questions.

I asked so many over the months of my first summer as Rasiel that I'm fairly sure Reg developed the ability to filter and answer my questions on autopilot, while continuing his chores.

This was useful in its own way, because he rarely remembered what I actually asked later on. It lessened the risk of him letting slip to anybody else about anything… _strange_ going on with me. 'Stranger' than I assumed many already suspected, anyway. 'Stranger' in a… _bad_ suspicious way, if there was such a concept as a _good_ suspicious way.

Mostly I just didn't want either Basile to realize I was poking around in places that might lead to certain explanations he clearly didn't want me to know yet, and shut me down hard. Or Belphegor, realizing the same, and deciding to try and beat me to the answers of questions I wasn't even sure of - which would inevitably alert Basile to the same.

Subtle, Belphegor was not. He _could_ probably _do_ it, but I had the strong impression that he rarely bothered without reason. And also that he rarely bothered to uncover a reason _first_.

In this sense, I entirely trusted Olgert to remain in the room, despite my maybe-paranoid compulsion to keep my more investigative-minded conversations discreet. If he wasn't close enough to overhear, fine. If he _was_ , that was also fine. Olgert wasn't going to report on me, and he was too professional to let slip anything he overheard. He was close to the perfect confidant: quiet in opinion, reserved in questioning, and unlikely to indulge in careless chatter.

(Not the best conversationalist, of course, but I was working on that. I'd find out his monologue-buttons soon enough… Everyone had them, it was just a matter of recognizing that.)

Asking the 'autopilot' meant I had to narrow down my words for specifics, however. But this could also be helpful in my thinking process. When you're plunging into a dark cave blind, in search of an objective you only vaguely have defined, it can sometimes be more useful to prod around with a cane than with a bulldozer to feel if you're on the right path.

"Who was the first king?" Springing it on him when he was otherwise preoccupied was a decent strategy, and also my go-to one.

"There was always a king," Reg answered absently as he crouched to check the fire for our roasts. He gestured vaguely, and Olgert left his position against the wall to help him add more firewood.

The prepared chickens, all tied up and seasoned and marinated - it'd been fun, learning to make my own marinade in cooking 'class' after a lifetime of using store-bought for convenience - laid on the counter above him, slowly defrosting after being taken out of one of the kitchens' primitive iceboxes. The one that was considerably neater was… not mine, obviously.

Reg was used to my sudden, out-of-the-blue questions now. A chance to show off his knowledge also appealed to his character, or at least how he himself thought of his character: the unappreciated intellectual.

I kept any reaction clear of my expression, defaulting to my steady 'I'm-listening' look.

Not that it mattered, with his back turned, but it was a good habit to maintain. Reg didn't realize it, but his first reactions were always so very fascinating in how much they revealed about the way an average kingdom citizen thought.

And, exactly, how little.

"Sorry, that's just something everybody says. Shows respect, see? But really, we don't know. It gets quite… muddled in the beginning. History books don't mention it and the teachers don't talk about it and hey, it doesn't matter much, does it? Books take a while to requisition and classes - well, the mandatory remedial ones - take up time you could be spending more productively, anyway."

"I… thought you liked learning?"

I screwed on the cap for the last of the newly bottled excess marinade. After placing it with the rest of the line-up, I stepped back to admire my neat handiwork. It would all have to eventually go into one of the refrigerating units at the end of cooking 'class'.

"I do! But the hassle it takes to get informational books out of the kingdom's library or school isn't worth it. And shouldn't you only learn what's worth learning?" He emphasized this point with a tweak of his glasses. A nod and mutter of thanks released Olgert from fire-helping duties, and the older man left to start carting in replacement firewood from the outside gardens, after a nod of his own tossed my way.

My hands were slightly stained with oil, so I began searching for a clean cloth. "So what would you consider worth learning?"

"Job skills. Kingdom knowledge. People goss- um, community news. Stuff like that is what you need for a successful and satisfied life," Reg advocated with a firm folding of his arms. "There must be value in the mandatory remedial classes if there's a royal decree… Let's see, vocabulary and general knowledge… updates? Corrections? I don't understand what royalty's thinking, but they must have their reasons."

Straightening up, he turned around and caught my bland gaze. Immediately flustered, his arms unfolded hastily and he quickly instructed me to watch him carefully as he demonstrated one of the proper ways to set up a chicken roast.

I did so, mind split between recording the conversation for Wednesday analysis purposes, committing to memory another culinary bit of instruction, and evaluating if I had a viable food gift for Belphegor this week.

He still preferred fish, but I wondered if the other prince would enjoy the roast at dinner? … Probably, as long as he was never made aware that it was mine. Hah, as if Cook would allow an amateur's work to be served from _her_ domain.

Still, the thought briefly amused me. Maybe the baking session afterwards would produce a more promising yield.

.

.

A week later…

"My teacher mentioned that some kingdom-born-" I was, somewhat unwillingly, picking up the slang through osmosis by now. "-have their own names for The Kingdom. Beyond the official one, that is."

She did, actually, but it was more than a month ago at this point. I was surprised I even remembered, but figured that since I _did_ , it must've been something my subconscious decided important enough to pursue.

At this, Reg actually focused, instead of going on automatic.

"There's an _official_ one?" He blinked curiously and cocked his head. With the way his glasses slid just a little with the movement, it made him look like a lopsided owl, especially when you added the feathery framing effect of his hair and the dots and smudges of flour patterning his face. "Really? I've never even heard of that myself. I think everybody just calls it 'The Kingdom'. N- Not that I think you're lying-!"

I felt a parental urge to pat him on the head, but resisted. From a child, that'd seem pretty patronizing.

Well, it was still a little patronizing from an adult. _More_ patronizing, then.

Belphegor had had a point about me seeming condescending to him after that first, disastrous race. I was cognizant of that, and had tried thereafter to include that new angle when I considered how I might seem to others. Self-awareness was constantly a work in progress, and I was - hah - aware of that myself.

Instead, I nodded soothingly, my hands carefully preoccupied with blending the batter. It was already baking 'class' by now, and it was a pastry day, so the dough had to end up light and flaky. I was worried mine would end up crusty and flattened again, but was eternally hopeful to be proven wrong.

I was dreading the rolling-out, though. Ruefully, I accepted I'd been spoiled by storebought pastry dough as well, and electric mixers.

"That's what my mother said, too, and then my teacher explained that was common for most kingdom-born. It's the 'Kingdom of Storms'," I recited, trying to avoid any unintentional condescension - the close cousin of patronization. "Ms. Slater said it was one of those dusty historical facts nobody really needed to know, though."

It was a bit of paraphrasing on my part, but the meaning came through fine enough.

"Ah." He nodded in understanding, already deftly rolling out his own dough with self-assured ease. I felt mildly envious in the most benign fashion at how swiftly he was settling into his post, and started speeding up my stirring. "So they didn't teach it in regular schooling, then. … Thanks for telling me something I didn't know, but I don't know if I can do the same for you. I don't really know what you mean by 'other names', sorry."

His apologeticness appeared genuine.

Well, Slater _had_ mentioned the alternative names being from more dissatisfied kingdom-born.

I side-eyed Reg contemplatively. My stirring slowed.

… He was a model citizen. 'Patriotism' was probably what he dreamed about, and 'absolute monarchist' shone from his eyes whenever the subject was even brushed against.

No dissent here, nosiree.

"-I can ask my aunt, though? She might know; she knows a lot more people," Reg continued thoughtfully, completely unself-conscious.

{Th- That's because you never socialize with anyone except me!} I desperately wanted to chime in.

Cook wasn't exactly the paradigm of social herself, after all. Her position just necessitated a lot more interaction. And she seemed to enjoy exercising her powers, as much as her unsmiling countenance could express visible joy.

I nodded calmly instead, resuming my previous stirring speed, and chirped out a cheerful but distracted, "Thanks! That'd be a big help. I'll ask around on my own, too. It's just going to bother me until I _know_ , you know?" It wouldn't do to present myself as _too_ invested in a 'trivial' trivia thing like this. Not until I knew if it was more chaff or some usable wheat, to be frank.

The cook's apprentice gave the pleased, sympathetic smile of a soul who knows that nagging feeling of inadequate knowledge intimately well.

"I'll have an answer next Sunday," he promised. "Has your batter thickened enough yet? Ready to roll out?" He was taking to seniority responsibility well.

I hummed another sound of gratitude, scrutinizing the color of my dough. Was it too light? Too dark? Too striped? Lumpy? Liquid?

I presented the bowl to Reg for examination, and waited for his verdict. Olgert wandered over to discreetly observe over my shoulder - he had a stake in this as well, being our first taste tester for any finished batches.

(That time we mixed up salt and sugar strained severely at his mask of stoicism. He was very careful afterwards when fetching extra stock on our request.)

These pastries went well with milk, though. Maybe Belphegor would actually take them this time, instead of throw them back at me, or look at me silently and smack it away, or leave without touching or even acknowledging them. He was still refusing my invitations to attend any hobby 'classes' with me, whether as a participant or simply an observer, but it was still summer yet.

Eternally hopeful, yup - that was me.

.

.

A week later…

We were just starting on the prep work for a lamb and vegetable stew when he brought it up first.

"Auntie only knew of one name," Reg announced hesitantly.

"And she didn't really want to tell me. She said it would bias me, and 'didn't you hate it when I do that and say anything against-'… Uh, nevermind. I still asked, though," he added hastily, as if afraid I'd scold him or think otherwise.

Maybe I _was_ like a parental influence to him?

When he seemed reluctant to spit it out, I gave him an encouraging look, both hands busy with peeling up a potato. My usual stepping-stool had already been helpfully set up and dragged over for me by Olgert, and Cook had finally allowed me access to non-blunted blades a week ago. It was good dexterity practice, and I'd only nicked my fingers twice since then.

His knife chopped through a carrot lengthwise, and landed with a solid _thunk_ against the cutting board. His own, far longer period of practice had greatly smoothened his slicing motions since that first unofficial meeting when I'd eavesdropped on him and Cook.

"She said she knew of 'the locked kingdom', but that there were others that sounded worse," he finally revealed.

I shrugged, taking another spud from Olgert's extended hand. The resident butler-guard promptly picked out an unfortunate successor, from the dirty basket at his feet, to run under the sink's faucet first, thus continuing our mini-station procession of wash-then-peel-then-cut. And then literally rinse-and-repeat.

Olgert was close today; enough that he'd usually join in with a dropped remark or two of his own, even without me deliberately drawing him in. The fact that he was abstaining from doing so and apparently studiously avoiding my eyes meant this was _definitely_ related - somehow - to the Mystery Triad he wasn't allowed to discuss with me, on (probably) Basile's orders.

I let my glance linger just long enough to make him teasingly uncomfortable, knowing amusement bleeding through on the sort-of kind-of not-really inside joke we shared. (Not _uncomfortable_ -uncomfortable. There was a difference, and it involved malice.)

"There are," I revealed right back with a casual ease that seemed to surprise Reg, and didn't reply further. It couldn't be helped that I'd already reconciled with that.

Hearing 'the lost kingdom' and 'the cursed kingdom' from the rest of the staff had pretty much prepared me to expect an equally ominous-sounding moniker, after all.

He held an uneasy expression, but didn't ask. Wordlessly, he accepted my skinned vegetable for slicing 'n dicing. 'The locked kingdom' must be weighing on him more than I thought.

I had my own thoughts weighing on me, under all that genuine cheer and enjoyment of hanging with a friend and a more tentative friend/close companion/employee-once-removed/butler-guard. There were, of course, the implications of such names, but I had already pondered and integrated those into my slowly-accumulating box of puzzle pieces, the vague picture of which was very gradually emerging.

Mostly, I was preoccupied that particular Sunday about a _missing_ piece. There was apparently a last nickname that nobody had known anything except the existence of - or maybe they'd known and had just refused to tell me. But I had above-average confidence in my people-reading skills, and I leaned towards the former theory. If I could just track down that last one, maybe I'd _know_ -

Well, I didn't know _what_ I'd know, but something told me I'd _know_. This… _something_ was actually what was throwing me off, since I wasn't one to place especial trust in my own instincts. In fact, most of the time I second-doubted them, and it unnerved me how _sure_ I was, this time, of this. It just… _seemed_ right?

For a while, we worked in silence, until Olgert cleared his throat and attempted to maneuver us back into meaningless chatter with a purposefully aimless comment on the weather. It had, indeed, been a little warm lately. This worked well to break the awkwardness, and the atmosphere returned roughly to normal before baking time came up.

We even joked around about somehow drawing a heart on the bowl of soup I'd set aside for trying to feed Belphegor. However, my unthinking reference of 'doggy bag' made Reg draw a blank and Olgert clear his throat again.

I was pretty sure he was hiding a smile, though.

.

.

Belphegor started showing up sporadically after that. Maybe the soup had finally done the trick, but I think the creamy candies deserved the lion's share of credit for eventually pushing him over the edge. They were the closest thing to my memories of Japanese milk sweets that I could describe to Cook and receive a recipe for.

It wasn't to all of my hobby 'classes' all the time, or even to every one of my kitchen cooking and baking (and outside gardening) session, but… sometimes. A ⅕ chance, maybe?

He was good at hiding his presence, too; this only provided support for my stewing hunches and cultivated theory about his constant cliche-horror-movie jump-scares being his way of getting a reaction for 'fun'.

With an observer hanging around who was more likely to have unwanted interest in the questions I might be asking, especially one who I couldn't accurately tell even _was_ hanging around, I stopped blatantly squeezing Reg - or others - for answers.

(But who, I was fairly sure, I nevertheless _wanted_ hanging around. It was a promising sign of success that he was starting to trust my commitments - one more step towards trusting my word.)

If something came up in conversation, I still eagerly took the opportunity to inquire specifics in a subjectively 'innocent' manner, of course. But if not, I found other ways.

Naturally, I didn't spend my entire time just _talkin_ g to people. It was helpful, certainly. People usually liked to please and/or present themselves as a superior, unless there were conflicting objectives.

Books couldn't lie about what they knew, however. They were literally open books, with no biases of their own, just of their owners. I spent almost as much time in those months reading as I did around people. For the things that kingdom-born didn't casually know, care, or have a term for conceptualization about, the journals and files could usually offer up _some_ tantalizing scrap or hint.

Unfortunately, Rasiel's ancestors seemed just as adverse and sketchy about leaving behind candid records or explanations as every kingdom-born, so I could _only_ get the tantalizing scraps and hints and not the far more tantalizing truth. But I took what I could and pieced together what I couldn't and hoped with all my heart that it would all make sense in the end.

And the scraps and hints, even out of full context, were fairly promising. If only I could figure the key to all the- the cipher-ish, cryptic references…

Especially this ' _seal'_ thing that kept coming up-!

… It was probably for the best that I'd had those monthly out-of-castle excursions to take my mind off my frustrating failures in research, and how restless I was getting pent-up each day in the admittedly large but still very limited confines of Rasiel's home.

I'd taken Basile's advice from our very first office meeting and inquired about Raynell's family in town, during one of our Friday chats early in July. This quickly resulted in an invitation to go along with her on her monthly trips to visit them.

Of course, I accepted, but it turns out that she kept a tight leash on me; I couldn't wander off and get conveniently 'lost', only stay by her side with almost no transition time between castle to carriage to the Carver household behind their furniture and toy store. in the end they proved even less fruitful than talking to Reg. Or should I say, it was _exactly like_ talking to Reg.

Eerily so; when I asked the same questions about leaving, the first king, and different kingdom titles - after having, of course, ensured Raynell had left the room and phrased the inquiries as subtly as possible - they gave roughly the same answers, with almost the same wording, and the totally same attitude of casual complete acceptance.

'We don't want to leave.' 'There was always a king.' 'There are other names?'

' _Why do you need to know?'_

Aside from the woodworking tips and pointers I charmed out of them, and naturally the familial duty of getting to know my maternal grandparents (who were ecstatic every time to receive their beloved daughter) and uncle (who either seemed to disapprove of his older sister's marriage or was just very dedicated to keeping shop, and rarely left the front counter), there was little to be gained from ditching all castle occurrences for a day. Especially when this meant dragging poor Olgert along to loom out-of-place in the Carver parlor, and might evoke more hostility from Belphegor at yet another point of perceived 'favoritism'.

But what can I say? I kept going. It was a relief to excuse myself for a break, any break, from said frustrating failures in research. The change in scenery was pleasant, too, even if the Carver house and shop was technically smaller than the castle. Basic wood carving tutorials were an unexpected bonus.

And… it was nice.

Balancing my plate of cookies, and trying to politely refuse more from Mrs. Please-Call-Me-Grandmother Carver; listening to Mr. Just-Call-Me-Grandpa Carver recount a tale from Raynell's misspent childhood, as she herself flushed brightly and complained; and having everyone laugh and joke and hug farewell at the send-off, with care packages of food and hand-made gifts and secondhand family wood carving tools.

That undiluted affection…

Raynell seemed more _real_ there than in the castle. Not happier, not like when she was with Basile, but easier to connect to. Basile was already comfortable enough to communicate with, but I wondered if Belphegor would be the same. Take the prince out of the castle, can you take the castle out of the prince?

… The Carvers were just so _ordinary_.

It was…

It was nice. And I kept going, even if I didn't gain much or at all by way of investigation, training, or even relevant socialization - I knew Mrs. and Mr. Carver would still love their faceless grandchildren the exact same if they never met.

Pragmatism could make room for sentimentality on occasion.

I think Olgert thought the same, or at least approved of me acting more like a child, because he smiled a lot more (even if he didn't think I noticed) whenever I fended off another snack or asked for another story or just hugged the middle-aged couple.

* * *

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 _ **You probably have a fairly good idea of what's going on in The Kingdom if you've been paying attention… or maybe you don't, and I just think that because my own knowledge is biasing me about how much can be extrapolated and theorized from what has been given so far. So hey, review in with your wildest conspiracy suggestions?**_

 _ **We're halfway through this mini-arc in chapter count. Don't worry about remembering a lot of OC names or descriptions; they're just the kind of things that the kind of person C is would mention in their internal dialogue. Flavor text?**_

 _ **This came out much later than I meant to, for two reasons: Fate/Grand Order's English mobile app release, and the Nirvana in Fire drama (whose ending was tragic). If you play FGO as well, or know the series, which Servant's your favorite? I'm curious.**_

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 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _Before I knew it, it was a day away from our shared birthday party. Two days away from our actual birthday, and the start of my active Flames training that I was so looking forward to, much more than the act of turning five for the second time._

 _Sunday, December 20th, Y10 of Basile, dawned with a light dusting of snow._

 _I took it as a good omen, and started my morning with a pep in my step that nothing could shake._

 _Today, I could feel, was going to be a good day._

 _(… Perhaps I should've been more worried about tomorrow.)_


	18. rabbit hole (fourth estate)

_**heavy is the crown:**_ _The first inkling I had of something being wrong was when I woke up to a child's grin over my face and a knife stabbing down on my eyes. The second inkling I had was when my terror's peak (because was a kid really about to kill me what the hell was going on oh no oh fuck oh shit) coincided with my eyes bursting into unnaturally red fire._

* * *

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/ / _Age: 4_

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Seals and the Outside and way too many bizarre or ghastly practices mentioned with everyday off-handedness, oh my!

If you had the stomach and the patience for it, a read-through of the royal library's many, many, many, _many_ volumes of past rulers' journal writings was almost entertaining. They read almost like the historical fiction of some severely messed up superstitious society. Vague on many details, but vivid enough where it counted. Or, well, where the authors _thought_ it counted… which mostly appeared to cover all the gore and sex and feasting you'd expect this typically violence-streaked and power-blessed royal line to indulge in. (I counted myself lucky with Rasiel's parents. Belphegor was too young to pass such critical judgement yet, and I had to admit I had a soft spot for children.)

If it weren't for the knowledge that they weren't fiction, just historical, and that I was currently _living_ in the 'severely messed up superstitious society' with no foreseeable avenue of escape so far, I'd have enjoyed them much more.

… Maybe I was being a little too self-pitying. I exaggerate my situation; considering Rasiel's position, I was vastly better off and more secure living here than 99% of the rest of the island's inhabitants.

For one, I was at absolutely no risk for being chosen at random for human sacrifice. That was a duty borne by the unfortunate citizens of a century past…

By which I mean that the practice of picking out a couple villagers and townsfolk for a 'seal recharging ritual' only ended around a century ago, in the reign of my great-great-grandfather. Great-great-great?

Life expectancies _weren't_ great for the royal line; many were recorded in their successor's early diary entries to have died from 'sudden exhaustion'.

There was an implication that the 'seal' mentioned frequently had something to do with cases like that.

I still couldn't figure out what the seal was supposed to be or do, but I already disliked it. It had too many connotations with death for me to view it as anything good, even if multiple context clues impressed the value of it as a peacekeeping and border protection device for the kingdom.

In my mind, something or perhaps some _one_ that had not-so-long-ago been regularly _fed_ people like- like they were _batteries_ and not human _lives_ couldn't be something purely benevolent, or even majorly.

And as much affection as I felt towards Raynell, Basile, and even Belphegor, it was impossible to deny that whatever past generations of royals had viewed _subjectively_ as a peacekeeping and border protection device was likely to be something much more _objectively_ insidious.

Although, with the historically practiced rigid censorship laws, control of information flow, and obliquely glossed-over tyranny, I was beginning to believe that I'd have to look very hard for any citizen who hadn't been influenced to think exactly the same subjective views, and even _harder_ for any citizen willing to _express_ those non-conformist views. Much less expressing them to _Rasiel_ , who everybody could agree had changed, but who was still, by birth and station, a royal.

Sadly, there was only so much people were willing to tell a four-year-old inheritor to a benevolently (?) oppressive (?) regime. Even if they were almost five physically, and much older mentally, and willing to solemnly promise not to let slip anything controversial to their parents and said benevolent (?) oppressors (?).

I understood, but I didn't have to like it.

… Explained the royal library's size, though. Even if it was the only public-access collection of information on the island (other than the sole sanctioned schooling institution), there was little of interest allowed to be within it. Agnostic god forbid some uppity citizens figure out exactly how contained they are within their little bubble and seek to rectify that. Most were also discouraged from making the long trek all the way to the castle (which was atop a lofty hill and bordered by forest and cliffs and the sea) just to _request_ to borrow something, and while the castle staff technically could make a visit any time, they were afraid of being seen as slacking off in case a royal was in there.

As for the royals, I could read between the crossed-out and deliberately blackened lines: there just wasn't really a history of Rasiel's ancestors being big on reading. Hunting was more their style, as well as clearly euphemistic mentions of 'diplomatic' and 'exploratory' excursions. I suspected that just meant they went on vacation a lot and did nothing.

And all personal book collections seemed to be locked up or permanently disposed off when it was the successor's turn to do some house- er, castle cleaning. Either way, I was still limited to the poor offerings of the library.

 _Still_ deeply intrigued but foiled by that locked door _in_ the library.

The Kingdom was like some sort of cult, plain and simple. Just one with apparently genuine powers backing up the leaders and enforcing their rules.

It… still took some measure of conscious restraint, as well the vivid memory of how Basile had laughed off the suggestion in that first office meeting, for me to edit out the word 'magic' from my mental vocabulary.

When was _fire_ from your _soul_ not _magical?_ When it was a result of sensibly explained 'lifeforce wave energy', it appeared. And when was 'lifeforce wave energy' not sketchy as all get out? When the paternal authority figure of your second remembered cycle of existence said so and quelled all opposition to that stance with a sunny smile, it seemed.

Was that how people felt when I steamrolled over them with the same expression and forcibly oblivious cheerfulness?

… Huh. Then, it worked so effectively as a conversational strategy that I should probably make use of it more often. I resolved to do so.

Very little had changed in the kingdom since I arrived. I didn't expect anything too, and it was more comforting than it was frustrating. The same anachronisms were present. I didn't quite comprehend how the economy stayed so even when by all means demand should've outweighed supply for the speciality items, but Basile made it work. I suppose a long, long tradition of doing so helped him in that sense: people were used to being satisfied with handing over a large portion of whatever they produced to the ruler, who then ferried them away on trips and somehow exchanged them for what the citizens _couldn't_ produce and trade with each other.

I couldn't be satisfied with just the proof of it working and not the knowledge of _how,_ but if I'd truly grown up here, I think… I would be, too.

Olgert still wasn't talking, about either his past or his links to the Outside, which basically confirmed that they were one and the same; he insisted the king didn't want him to, and I believed him. It was something Basile would do. Besides, a quick ask-around already admitted nobody had seen him before a few years ago, so I was just pressing for helpful details now on what kind of society was on the Outside. (Earth? A close facsimile of it? An entirely different parallel world to the one I remembered from my first life?)

The population of the kingdom was still the same, the routine of the castle was still the same, and if it weren't for the seasons changing it would've been difficult to sense time passing in any concrete fashion. It was… peaceful. Idyllic.

Sometimes I regretted I wasn't honestly a child; a child would've taken innocent happiness from it all, rather than occupy half a mind at all time making observations.

Like the slightly different accents I kept hearing finally being pinned down for vaguely British (unhelpful, considering that covered England, Scotland, Wales, and part of Ireland) and/or Scandinavian (unhelpful, considering that covered almost as many distinct cultures). (I still wasn't any expert on linguistics.)

Or like my conclusion that the nearly homogenous phenotype of the kingdom-born to be pale, some variant of blond, and some variant of red-shaded eyes to be a result of centuries of at least distant inbreeding from a limited gene pool. Slater was proof that alternate eye colors were just unusual, and Cook was the same proof for skin shades. Olgert defied all three common phenotypes - he was bald, but his eyelashes served the same purpose as hair color identifiers - but there was a 97.32% chance he was one of those Outsiders mentioned every so often in the journals.

I also noted how… restricted our science classes were. Slater went over basic geographical features with accompanying illustrations, but ardently refused to go into world geography, or even answer any questions confirming or denying the existence of other countries. History, too, only focused on the various tax reforms, legislature changes, the personal achievements and personality quirks of the past twelve rulers, and very downplayed passing references to the one recognized rebellion ever staged. (The last one was only on my specific questioning, after I'd found an anecdote on it in one of the earliest journals, mentioning that it was the fault of an insufficiently maintained seal, and that the ruler at the time was going to rectify that 'mistake' by upping the human sacrifice rates- ahem, 'seal recharging rituals'.)

She stiffly repeated that anything else was privileged information she was not at liberty to teach, or, for that matter, admit to knowing. The king, she added coolly, would be handling that part of our education when we were old enough to start phasing out of her tutoring and into the more advanced specialized lessons presided over by the current ruler.

Consultation and comparison with my staff connections revealed much the same slimmed-down educational coursework in the mandatory years of schooling that other kingdom-born went through.

Belphegor seemed happy enough to absorb himself in the anatomy lessons and accept the informational (and perhaps physical) isolation of the Kingdom of Storms from the rest of the world. (He didn't show up to the history lessons at all anymore, finding them too dull to continue.)

For all he knew, this _was_ the entire world to a child who's never known anything else. For all _I_ knew, it really _was_ , and those mysterious resupplying trips were the result of some magical (I'm sorry, _not_ -magical) summoning ritual performed to pull items from other realities, completely unrelated to the Outside that Olgert (97.32% chance, a number I made up completely) originated from. It seemed as good and supported as any other theory. 'New world, new rules' was starting to grate on me as a motto; its assurance value wore out with every repetition.

The literary and educational offerings of the Kingdom were making me miss the Internet, when my hobby classes failed to distract me from it. Or, much more reliable but considerably less accessible, my horde of textbooks.

(They were necessary refresher and reference materials for the profession I was in, and, I'd found, remarkably more effective for inducing drowsiness in a restless student than any amount of sleeping pills. The latter, in any case, usually weren't authorized by contract for me to dispense to underage charges.)

And so time passed, and I learned and loved and locked down my multiplying frustrations, until six months had elapsed since I woke up in a strange kingdom I knew nothing about.

It was December, and I kept waking up in a strange kingdom I now knew _next_ to nothing about.

.

.

.

/ / _Age: 5 (T minus two days)_

 _._

Before I knew it, it was a day away from our shared birthday party. Two days away from our actual birthday, and the start of my active Flames training that I was so looking forward to, much more than the act of turning five for the second time.

Sunday, December 20th, Y10 of Basile, dawned with a light dusting of snow.

I took it as a good omen, and started my morning with a pep in my step that nothing could shake.

Today, I could feel, was going to be a good day.

(… Perhaps I should've been more worried about tomorrow.)

Breakfast was bubbly. Literally - our parents giggled through it with coy whispers and toasts of a fizzy and probably alcoholic drink. Then I blazed through lessons in a blissful blur.

You know those days when you just feel like nothing can go wrong, and you're _right?_

Today was one of those days, and I relished in it.

Belphegor had deigned to make an appearance. Slater waved off general lessons for the day with a yawn, announcing it was a 'self-study session', and for 'you brats to have fun or whatever since tomorrow's all for stroking your egos anyway'. She seemed exhausted by something, and promptly fell asleep at her lectern.

We bantered playfully… I carefully steered the conversation away to lighter topics whenever it threatened to devolve into plain bickering… a few pens were thrown… I dodged all of them except one, which I caught, and then put into a time-out in my trusty bag… as a peace offering and throwing alternative, I spent a pleasant half-hour teaching Belphegor to fold a paper airplane… we held a brief paper airplane tossing contest, which ended when he wouldn't stop aiming to knock mine off-flight… the corpses of failed flyers were given a funeral and summary cremation via us tossing them into the fireplace… since there wasn't anything happening today anyway, we voted 2-to-1-asleep to take recess early… after two snowman-making contests, one snow-angel marathon, and three vicious snowball guerilla fights that dragged in Olgert as well as nine other passerby, we tromped back inside to shiver off the chill by the fireplace and devour lunch, before I decided to stay inside for the heirship classes that _were_ still happening (and also for the warmth).

At this, Belphegor snorted, booed, and offered a friendly last jeer before climbing out the window to drop down a white-covered tree. He also snagged my last bread crust for the birds he liked to feed, but magnanimously left my last apple slice, knowing I would not hesitate now to tackle him (gently) for the crime of stealing fruit he wasn't even going to eat.

It was nice.

Even Slater seemed slightly more alive than normal, once she'd woken up from an airplane to the head, anyway. (Belphegor aimed it on purpose.)

Without events like Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, the birthday celebrations of royalty were basically the closest alternative to nationwide holidays. Everyone - and they meant _everyone_ \- in the kingdom was invited to partake in a free feast that lasted half a day, and the castle doors were open to all to enter (although you better start leaving before dawn breaks the next morning and the most sober guards accordingly break out their prodding weapons). This was the one type of occasion when the dining hall was filled, usually because the courtyard and gardens were too jam-packed already, or the weather chased inside everyone who could elbow their way into fitting.

Slater didn't much like anything, I'd discovered, but she seemed to perk up slightly whenever Reg delivered food to the tower. This feasting was right up her alley.

Raynell's was in January, and Basile's in June, so this was my first experience at one of these birthday bashes. The twins' birthday was apparently always the biggest, since a. it was two birthdays in one, b. it was so close to the new year (which _was_ still a nationwide sort of holiday), and c. it was even closer to the winter solstice. Just one day off - which was actually why it'd been shifted from December 22nd to December 21st, so as to coincide with the longest night of the year. All the more time for celebration and taking advantage of free food!

The events were less to commemorate the actual birthdays, and more of an excuse to throw a giant party and improve goodwill and public relations with the people. I was perfectly fine with that mentality - I wasn't much into big personal fanfares, but I could certainly enjoy some carousing for a greater purpose. And I liked free food as much as any other person, even if it was technically my family giving _away_ the food.

It would be interesting to see how The Kingdom's citizenry partied - I'd been helping out the past few days with decorations, food preparation, and general message-couriering, and the festive atmosphere was infectious. Raynell seemed to be floating on air, Basile's beams were jollier than ever, Olgert had an unconscious ghost of a smile every moment, Reg and most of the maids were prone to sighing dreamily and going about their duties with an almost dazed efficiency, and even Cook seemed to be reluctantly surrendering to the jubilance everyone else shared.

She'd asked me to come down to the kitchens today, actually. I was planning to, anyway, since it was a Sunday, regardless of how little there was left to do after weeks of frantic food preparation and freezing, but she'd seemed especially firm that I made sure to visit.

I leaned out the landing window after heirship classes, which had half-heartedly droned on about the seasonal changes in tax law. I'd mostly tuned it out in favor of some more Flames circulation practice. (I was going to figure out conscious concentration unless it killed me, and I was so close I could _feel_ it.) Belphegor looked like he was having the time of his life giggling at nailing another servant with a snowball, so I smiled fondly and didn't bother interrupting to invite him to the kitchens with me.

When she saw me start descending down the steps, Slater toasted me goodbye from inside the classroom with an ironic smirk and a bottle of icy eggnog. She'd been keeping it cold with an ingenious method: instead of preserving it inside the tower, which had a little fireplace going hot, she wedged it outside between snow-blanketed pipes, and then retrieved it once class-time was over. I admired her tenacious determination to enjoy herself - or to get tipsy in style, I wasn't quite sure which it was she was aiming for.

I waved back cheerily, and only a lack of ruffles on my practical wintertime ensemble kept my journey down the staircase a 'bounce' instead of a 'flounce'. I was merry enough to pass muster either way.

(Woollen snow cap to keep heat in, knit scarf draped for flexibility, long-sleeve shirt under an unbuttoned sweater, a snow coat [with mittens in its pockets] tied around my waist until I needed it, two layers of pants [the outside layer stiff and supposedly water-resistant], and sturdy boots perfect for either stomping or shedding snow.

… As Raynell was the one who knitted the cap, scarf, sweater, and mittens, she naturally refused to budge from her stance on working in snowflake motifs _everywhere_. I mean, they were cute, and since she painstakingly made them by hand and cried very loudly about that fact when gifting me them I wasn't about to _argue_ , but they… didn't exactly afford me any dignity. My only condolence was that Belphegor suffered the same fate, except his scarf was also shaped like his favorite non-weaponizable toy - a stuffed mink. Which made it, if anything, _more_ adorable than my outfit.

I had obligingly cooed with Raynell at the sight and quickly stifled a smile when he turned to scowl at us. It was more of a pout, really, in those clothes. See, Belphegor? This is when visible eyes are useful for glaring. Otherwise your audience might react like Raynell and assume you love it all so much that you want everything in a different color set!)

When Olgert, leaning against a wall at the foot of the stairs, uncrossed his arms and gave me an amused look at my somewhat uncharacteristic energeticness, rather than become embarrassed at my lack of supposed maturity, I took advantage of my childish form to behave childishly.

Shamelessly - well, okay, with only a very mild modicum of shame, easily overridden by my inexplicable enthusiasm that day - I demanded a piggyback ride to the kitchens, copying Belphegor's most imperious stance and tone. He complied with tolerant bemusement, and I resisted the reckless urge to copy Belphegor's most imperious laugh as well while I rode at an elevation I'd sorely missed.

I'd been almost six feet as an adult - Rasiel's height offered its own charms, but there was something special about being able to look comfortably out of windows again, with _out_ standing on my tippy-toes.

We arrived at the kitchens quickly enough, after exchanging greetings with everyone we came across in the hallways. They almost always chuckled and then gave Olgert warm smiles and soft looks at how he humored me. It was probably a comical sight, given our ordinary height difference.

I was king of the castle! … Figuratively. For now.

Cook impatiently ushered us in, not batting an eye at our positions. Olgert carefully placed me onto my stool, so that I was at least at chest level with most of the kitchen workers, of whom there were a large number gathered expectantly. Waiting for something.

Reg hopefully waved hello over the taller heads he was squished behind in the crowd. I waved hello back, just before his aunt stepped in front of me and cut off my view of him.

She was clutching something in her hands, caging it with her callused fingers. She was… offering it to me?

I smiled uncertainly, tilting my head with good-natured confusion.

She rolled her eyes.

"Place your hands under mine," Cook instructed. I obeyed, confident it wouldn't be anything harmful, not with an audience like this. "Okay, now watch out, he's a wriggly one."

Before I could balk, react, or do anything but freeze, I felt something warm and soft and _furry_ drop into my cupped palms.

Cook removed her hands, revealing a small, brown-and-white, piebald rat now in mine.

… It did, indeed, wriggle. _He_. _He_ wriggled.

Everybody seemed to be holding their breath, and watching anticipatedly for my reaction. I could barely glimpse Reg nervously chewing on his fingernails and peeking over a few shoulders my way.

I was hesitant. I'd fostered hamsters and chinchillas and more exotic small pets before, but never rats. Were they like… bigger mice?

He wriggled around, blinked doe-like eyes blearily, and then sniffed around in the fleshy enclosure until he reached my left thumb, which he nuzzled.

Suddenly my hesitance seemed dumb. He was adorable, it would all be fine, and nobody was expecting me to be a perfect rat owner immediately anyway - that was what Cook, presumably, would be there for to teach me.

I melted, and everybody else did too, upon seeing that nuzzle. If the Internet existed here, then that would've been an instant meme, I just know it.

Smugly, Cook grinned, as if she'd known I'd love her gift. "Well? He's yours now. Thought I'd let you see what you're in for since you'll be busy all tomorrow and the next with birthday things, I suspect. Last of ol' Cookery's final litter. His siblings are all cat food by now… except little Cookery II, I'm keeping her for when Cookery croaks." She seemed slightly saddened by this, but brightened swiftly. "So…? He's not even three weeks yet, can't wean him for another week or so, and then I've got to fix the lil' fellow, but after that he's all yours. But you oughta name him now. Shows he's yours. Any ideas?"

It was clear by the way our audience brightened as well that if I _didn't_ have any ideas, they were plenty eager to chip in.

And they might need to. I was not gifted in the originality or creativity aspect - a fact my endeavors in art can attest to, being purely model-based realism for a _reason_. I could copy something remarkably well for a four-year-old's dexterity, but I couldn't draw anything from imagination scratch without it coming out exactly like you'd picture a child's crayon scribbles to be like.

After some thought, I discarded the nightmare-inducing and possibly false superiority-complex affirming 'Rat King'. It was a natural phenomenon, but… not one I hoped to inspire in my new pet.

I also dismissed the amusingly homophone-esque and childishly obvious 'Ratsy', despite how perfectly it would match with 'Razzy'. The various food-related suggestions offered up by a curious kitchen crowd involving variations on 'Pie', 'Ginger', 'Biscuit', etc., and Olgert's own inside-joke Flame-related suggestions involving variations on 'Matchstick', 'Lampwick', 'Torchflare', etc., were also summarily rejected.

I went for the lazy route, in the end. And also the one I found funniest. "His name," I declared, playing up the dramatics to fit with the lighthearted mood, as I assumed the iconic pose of that one simian sage from [Lion King], "shall henceforth be known to all within the kingdom as…! _Cici._ "

C's Cici. CCC. Whenever somebody asked what his name was, and then what mine was, I was going to answer with the straightest face I had and I was going to _like_ it.

Everyone applauded, with varying amounts of enthusiasm as they struggled to pick out the humor.

I've been told - repeatedly, by distant and close friends alike - I have a poor sense of humor. I would like to correct this, if only in my own mind, and set the record straight as me merely having a… _strange_ one. Taking things literally on purpose? Bad puns? Pretending to be very serious in silly situations to see how others react?

Ah, humor for the starved.

Cici wrinkled his nose and sort of wriggled around unhappily in the air. He was not content with his temporary role as Simba, it appeared. He was much happier to be set on the firm 'ground' of my shoulder, and displayed this by sniffing at my ear and tickling it with his sensitive whiskers, before promptly attempting to tunnel under my shirt.

We compromised.

Cici quickly adjusted to being relocated within the folds of my neckerchief, which was more of a ride-along baby-sling/seat-belt for him.

Everyone applauded again, with uniformly greater enthusiasm as cuteness was much more self-evident than personal tastes in humor.

Well, there's no accounting for taste. Although, I had to admit, this pose was the sort of thing that only spawned more and more insta-memes.

Since we _were_ in the kitchens, and all of the feast food had already been prepared in advance, leaving no work to be done, there was an impromptu little party to celebrate the advent of a new age of cuteness to be crowned in the castle, anyway. Like I thought before, nobody says no to free food, and using your employers' ingredients to make food for yourselves was close enough to count. Cook even generously made a pot of her famous mishmash stew - you didn't know what was in it, but you didn't care after you tasted it.

New [Pet], achieved! … until Cook took back Cici to his mother before Olgert and I left the kitchens, bearing a jug of hot cider, and headed for an early night at the royal library.

I was almost done with those journals, and research never stopped. I was getting somewhere, though. I _was._

I had to be.

.

.

.

 _/ / Age: 5 (T minus one day)_

.

I…

I hadn't been getting anywhere.

… Huh. That…

It was a history session in heirship classes today. General lessons had been the same playing around. We watched together as staff set up decorations outside and carted around tables for games and food stations. It was more like a festival than anything. Olgert had helped - I'd requested he do, seeing as he didn't have any duties while I was in the tower, anyway.

That didn't really matter.

I narrowly stopped Belphegor multiple times from launching a flurry of snowballs down on the unsuspecting servants. It was difficult, with the ammunition blanketing every tree branch within reach of the opened windows.

That didn't really matter either.

He'd acquiesced, and then seized his chance to cause mischief by scampering out of the classroom as soon as lunch was finished, knowing but not understanding why I'd elected to stay behind again for rather useless lessons that neither the teacher nor the student put their effort into.

That… mattered. A little. Maybe. I thought so? I think, therefore I am.

I am _so stupid_.

Turns out today was my…

Luck? Did luck matter in choice? I'd chosen to attend today, and I'd chosen to actively listen today, and I'd chosen to ask further questions today. If I hadn't done any of that, or maybe if I hadn't done just _one_ of those actions, I wouldn't have received this outcome.

… The outcome simply would've come later.

Now that didn't matter. _Now_ , that didn't matter.

The outcome was the same, regardless of when it arrived. It arrived today. It…

… It was my fault. I'd thought I was paranoid, worried about trusting the veracity of anything I was told and read. I'd thought, as long as I recognized my inability to truly verify anything in my search for- for the _truth_ , I could _control_ for that bias. Somehow. How had I, somewhere along the line, lost track of that control and decided that what I saw was what I had? _Had_ to be what I had.

Hadn't _been_ what I had.

I'd thought, I'd thought, I'd thought…

I'd thought so much, and then become too obsessed to _heed_ those thoughts. What was the use of thinking if you didn't use those thoughts?

Useless. When there's no use, it's useless. It's useless!

It hit like the most useless epiphany ever when I asked an innocent question about some minor discrepancy between the number of siblings Basile had. I remembered reading in Queen Ruth's entries that he wasn't her only child, although she - like all other journal entries concerning family - seemed almost skittish of mentioning anyone by name. When any ruler did appear to write down a name, it ended up scribbled out before being placed in the library.

We were going over the personal lives of past rulers this afternoon, when Slater announced definitively that "the current king is an only child."

I… puzzled, I politely tried to contest this point. Normally, I wouldn't. I assumed an authority figure likely knew better. But I was confident here, and it was such a small thing, and Slater wasn't the most alert teacher anyway… Had she just gotten him mixed up? B- and R- names were very popular as a naming trend for royals in the past dozen or so generations.

No, she hadn't. "King Basile is an only child."

Um, Ruth hadn't come off as the most stable or of the most static sanity near the end of her diaries, just like the majority of Red Storm rulers near the end of _their_ reigns and recorded writings, but I didn't think a parent would mistake the number of her children. And she'd had at least four or so, even if it was kind of hard to remember since she didn't talk about them by name, and I'd read her journals almost a month ago.

"No," Slater insisted, "King. Basile. Is. An. Only. Child."

Only… that didn't seem right? I was _pretty_ _sure_ Ruth had had more than one child. Basile was just the only surviving one - he'd told me so, when explaining how regency worked if he died. Neither he, nor Raynell, nor… anyone I could recall talking to… had ever brushed up against the topic more opaquely, or… at _all_ … but I hadn't ever asked, now had I? It could be a sensitive topic. Basile had seemed… regretful. It hadn't seemed important to my investigation into the Mystery Triad before, so I- I-

Just because I didn't ask about something - some _one_ \- didn't mean it didn't exist. Object permanence was a concept learned in _infancy_.

Maybe I was starting to get a little too insistent here. There was no need to lean over my desk so far I almost toppled it over. But I was _certain_ I was _correct_ on this detail, and while I wasn't usually so stubborn about a contested point, this was a topic that concerned my memory. My perception. My reality, which had already gone through a lot of bottled-up and locked-down stress over the past few months as I told myself I was perfectly fine with everything around me, and I was _not_ a pressure cork trembling slightly at the seams.

That was true. Corks didn't have seams. And I wasn't trembling, my hands were just hurting a little from how hard I was gripping the edges of the lectern, so they just _looked_ shaky.

I was perfectly fine, like always.

"Basile-" Slater sighed, and examined me over her book. Another dictionary. Her expression was… less bored than usual. Almost- I couldn't tell what was in her eyes, I was too busy looking down at the woodgrain. "Okay, King Basile may or may not be an only child. Are you sure you want to know what's in the history textbook? You can't go back from this. Knowing, that is. Once you know something that you're _this_ insistent about, brat, you don't forget it easily. I can drink to forget. You're a little too young for that yet."

I was sure. I was _sure I was correct_. My memory wasn't failing me.

There was one history textbook for the classroom. Publications being so precious, neither Belphegor nor I had ever been allowed to open it, but it was what Slater sometimes read from, when she was too lazy to even paraphrase. The kingdom-born's school had one textbook in each classroom, too, reserved for the teacher's use.

She shrugged. Sighed, again. She did that a lot. _Sigh_. "Alright, it's your choice. I suppose he never said I couldn't tell you _this_ …" He? Basile, it had to be. I loved him like a father when I wasn't too close to disliking (hating) him like a roadblock. _Basile_. It all came circling back to him, always.

Slater didn't reach for the dark brown leather-bound textbook on her lectern shelf. She just shifted position to a more comfortable elbow-balance.

"The history textbooks do say that King Basile is an only child, so he _is_ an only child. It says he was the heir, so he _was_ the heir. That is all that I, and every teacher in that kingdom-sanctioned school down there, will ever teach. And that is all that everyone who cycles through mandatory education will ever be taught."

Dictionary snaps shut, taps the edge meaningfully against the lectern I'd stepped back from. "… But under Queen Ruth's reign, a decade ago, it said that she had children. Plural. No heir was specified at the time of publication, about a year after she inherited the throne. A year after inheritance, and she already had more than one child. Interesting, right?"

What was she saying? What was she _saying?_

(… Why was Basile the only survivor? He was _regretful._ )

"What I'm _not_ saying is… well, did you know every set of history textbooks lacks an edition number? It's not just the history textbooks, all of the textbooks. But usually, a new set of the history ones comes out every time the throne changes hands. And sometimes… things are a little different. Just a little. I was too young to help or be hired at the time, but whoever is the current royal tutor will be working in the castle printing room for the… next set. And then they can't leave the castle without permission. Some job security, huh?"

Wouldn't people question the differences between what they were taught and what their parents or children were taught? Between what the teachers said and what they remembered?

Before she answered, I'd already realized: I was just asking 'why don't people leave?' all over again.

You just didn't. Unless you did, in which case you served as an example to others as to why you _didn't._

(Human sacrifice only stopped a century ago. Seal recharging rituals? What was this _seal?_ )

(… He'd seemed truthful when denying heirs were encouraged to kill for the throne. But what had been the exact wording? It was so long ago I'd forgotten the specifics but _he'd seemed truthful_.)

"People have… flexible minds. Especially when it comes to the royal family, source of all specialty items and the possessors of the bloodline fire. You can call it tradition or selective breeding, but citizens who question things don't often question them for long. Social pressure or… otherwise."

But wasn't that… _wrong_ , on a number of deeply disturbing levels? Wasn't that just… _rewriting history_ to _fit you_ , and forgetting what was _inconvenient_ with every new generation's version of 'the past'? How could she _teach_ this- this _travesty_ , as a teacher responsible for molding the minds of so many?

This was some _1984_ next-level censorship and doublethink.

(Reg? The Carvers? Cook, Felicity, Edeva, so many more…

Everyone except Slater, Olgert, and the royal family?)

I voiced these horrified thoughts, but more delicately, aloud. Politeness was an automatic function by now - I was concentrating on simultaneously breathing and analyzing.

"I can only teach what I know, kid, and I can only _know_ what I am _allowed_ to know," Slater snapped severely in response, tossing back her dictionary with a thump.

She softened her tone a bit at whatever signs were rising to my face, and exhaled heavily, leaning both arms against her lectern.

"You're… well, you've _become_ a good student. Hey, you've even graduated from 'brat' to 'kid'! Not everyone can do that, you know. And you and your brother are _smart_. Too smart for your age, that is. Remember you're not even _five_ , not _yet_ , no matter how cleverer or wiser you think yourself to be. Don't be so sharp you cut yourself up on the inside with all the edges of wanting to _know_ , kid. I get it, I do. Trust me on that: I was the same. I was a child too, once."

Slater leaned over and graced me with an uncharacteristic smile. It was a pretty smile, but it would've been _beautiful_ without the bitterness. Her next words came out in a whisper, like she was confiding a secret, and maybe, just maybe, she was.

"Why do you think I _got_ this job? _How_ do you think, is what I should say, and don't tell me 'with my brain', okay? Although I guess that's not entirely wrong, in the correct context. You do think with your brain, after all - or, I should dare hope so. Anyway, the right answer: I learned more than I should have, and got too curious for my station. Did you really think I _grew up_ wanting to be _stuck_ in the castle where I can only teach approved curriculums to children who outrank me, until they grow up and continue the cycle and I'm shunted off to the kingdom academy to teach even _more_ restricted curriculums to children who won't use most of it or ever think twice? Don't be dumb, kid, I know you aren't, I already said so. … Look at how much I'm complimenting you today, don't you love compliments?"

I think she was trying to be kind, in her own, cruel way.

I wanted to protest. What she was saying was awful, and what it implied was worse.

The royal family essentially controlled every avenue of information flow, was what she was saying. I'd realized, I'd _known_ , but I hadn't- I hadn't _realized_.

They supplied the books, and the news, and they kept a leash on the ones who taught others to read such words and spread such knowledge. What everybody knew, nobody knew where it started. It just was, and you didn't ask further.

 _Why would you want to? Why do you need to?_

And the strange, vague mythology of the Two? And the way most people seemed almost brainwashed into being content to never leave or question? And the way that those who tried to leave and refused to turn back from a certain invisible boundary line just _died?_ And the way nobody knew anything concrete about the resupplying trips or Flames or for that matter the exact of the kingdom's founding beyond a vague, "the first king (who might not even exist) made a deal with two magical creatures to protect us from danger and from there they were blessed with the royal birthright of soul fire and now nobody can leave without dying except them and the 'outside' (that might not even exist) help they bring"?

(No, it had to exist, it was the only way anything made sense, the _journals_ -

Crossed out, scribbled out, blacked out lines. No names, ever. No numbers. You had to assume an order because _that was the way it was set for you to assume_.

Locked door in library. Things only the current ruler knows.

Circling back to _Basile_ , always.)

And nobody cared and stayed more or less satisfied, because for all they knew there was nothing worth protesting about The Kingdom and its rulers because _they didn't know what to protest about._

They didn't _care_ to _know_.

(If you leave you _die-_

 _Killing_ implies a killer _-_

There was _always_ a king _-_

 _Locked, lost, cursed-_ )

W- Was it all just _one_ _big fake illusion of a conspiracy?_

Had I just _wasted_ all that time and effort over the months when I naively thought I was _getting_ somewhere and that I could _figure this out myself_ and that I was _on the right track?_

Did I learn _nothing real?_

(He _seemed_ truthful-

What was the _exact_ wording-

It all went back to _Basile_ -)

Slater sighed - again, again - at my silence. My thoughts were just going too fast for my mouth to decide when to hop in.

There might've been a highway accident if it did. Crashed connections piled up three-cars-high. Boom! Explosion. Everyone dies and nobody is happy, ever.

Brain swoops in and tows the hypothetical wreckage away, just like it's redirecting mental traffic right now.

"Go have fun at your birthday party, kid," she ordered wearily. "Try not to get into a food fight like last year. The custard took forever to wash out of the tapestries. No school tomorrow; it's a day off. Get some sun, and stop thinking so hard about things you aren't supposed to know right now, okay?

"It's not like you won't learn them sooner or later from the mouth of the king himself. Be patient. You're _royalty_ , after all. You have a future at least _partly_ outside of this damn kingdom," she revealed sourly.

"Leave a hopeless dreamer to her comforts, won't you? I have a nice blacksmith and a bottle of good wine waiting for me, as well as the guests' feast. _Everyone's_ invited, so I'll see you there, perhaps. The kitchens always make sure to churn out lots extra on purpose during big events like these. Usually the family eats portioned out meals, see, so they've got to follow their careful little shares too, but on occasions like these, everyone can do as they please."

Maybe she would've kept talking until I obeyed. Talking, talking, talk my ear off. Without an ear, would I remember what I heard? Ah, yes, of course - there's always the other ear.

So I nodded jerkily, cutting her off.

She watched me mechanically move out of the room and march stiffly down the stairs.

I slammed the door shut before she could let out a fourth sigh.

.

.

So I couldn't trust my teacher, I couldn't trust anything I read, and I couldn't trust this history as I knew it - rather, what of this history I _knew_.

(No big loss, it was mostly taxes and laws and regime fun facts and _everything being glossed over or omitted entirely_. So I wasn't missing anything I'd already missed, right?

Brain, that makes little logic, and is _not_ comforting at _all_.)

I couldn't even trust the word of everyone who'd grown up on the same diet of controlled misinformation, either.

This was feeling more and _more_ like I'd just awoken in a cult, albeit one that didn't mean me harm at this very moment, but I wasn't sure if that'd change once I tried to get out. And I was starting-

No, I was _forming_ a resolution _to_ get out.

I didn't know when and I didn't how and I didn't even know what or _where_ there was _for_ me to 'get out', but I did know one thing:

I wasn't willing to rule a kingdom as- as- as a _liar._ Worse than a liar. A- whatever this was. Whoever they - accumulations upon accumulations of Red Storms - were.

(Could I really blame Basile? This wasn't a one-generation result, this was centuries, this was beyond and more than him, this-

This didn't implicate him specifically, him and his genuine love for family, his smiles, his kindness-

This didn't absolve him, either.)

Another thing, too: If I stayed here too long, I might just _become_ willing.

And as someone who'd almost always had the gift of knowing their own thoughts, no matter how double-edged that self-awareness sometimes turned out to be, I was afraid to grow up a stranger in my mind.

I didn't want to become a Reg: so earnestly buying into the massive censorship and- and _control_ schemes that they weren't just _drinking_ the Kool-Aid, they were _making_ it.

I didn't want to become a Basile: so content with their place and power, that they were plenty motivated to perpetuate the illusions blanketing the The Kingdom.

And I definitely didn't want to become a Slater: so broken by their understanding of how futile it was to fight against their fate, that they stopped caring about anything, just waiting bleakly for a quiet end to a disappointed life they found little reason to enjoy.

So I had to get out, and I had to figure out how to do it before it was too late, and I also had to figure out when it would _be_ too late. So, before anyone noticed and tried to stop me. Who would notice? Who would stop me? A lot of people likely would, for the heir apparent.

( _Abdication_ is impossible-

Rule until _death_ -

Well, we usually don't _live_ to retirement-

 _Accept_ that _some_ things just _are_ -

Secret you _aren't_ old enough for-

 _In a few years-_ )

No big deal, right?

Hah. Hah. Ah…

I'm so not funny. Had I ever _been_ funny? Probably not. Poor sense of humor, right.

Cici was a terrible name, on second thought.

More's the pity, too. I had just gotten used to being Rasiel, and now I was thinking of the future, when I had to be someone else with a less-distinctive name who _wouldn't_ be searched for as a runaway royal.

(Outside, Outside-

 _What was the Outside?_ If I ran, could anyone even chase? Would they? There was still Belphegor, as long as left early enough, it would be more efficient to cut losses and train him up instead of tracking me down, he'd even enjoy finally getting the position he'd always envied-)

Well, now.

 _Happy birthday to me._

I'd only _completely wasted_ a half-year! That was probably marginally better than wasting even more!

Hah, ah…

Still not funny!

Looking outside, the garden party had already started, and was rapidly approaching full swing. Late December being how it was, the sky was already starting to stain with darkness at four o' clock, and there wasn't anything better for the kingdom-born to do. The fairy lights, imported from that mysterious 'Outside' I was no closer to confirming whether or not was Earth as I remembered it or more of this _fakety-fake fantasy knock-off cult-land_ \- like that bubble theory for what was out there, beyond the Two's 'protection' - were twinkling in the trees.

I'd been so excited for a winter party out in the snow and the nostalgic lighting of Christmas parties a world away. There'd even be presents. Now, I ached of something awful and hollow, scraping out my insides.

Not cold. The castle had fireplaces every in full blast, and I was decked out in layers.

Maybe numb.

Watching the people cheerfully dancing and laughing down below simply felt exhausting, and distant, and- and I couldn't quite recall how much I'd cared about being there with new friends. They were all at least a decade older than this body, anyway, and were employed under my guardians to boot. That hadn't seemed important when I'd made them, and it didn't seem that important still, but it was a halfhearted excuse I clung to with just as much halfheartedness to explain how…

How everything about the gathering _did_ seem abruptly unimportant.

Had it been abrupt? It had felt gradual. A creeping inevitability, walking dazed down the eternity of study tower stairs. Knowing Slater would leave herself once I was out of sight, knowing what she knew and now what I knew, too. When I forced myself to think more about it, despite how much of a struggle it was to linger on that moment, she hadn't actually told me much.

Typical Slater, slacking off. Even when she told me enough, it wasn't much. Hah, ah…

Not funny. Not even particularly punny.

I didn't want to go.

I was expected, since it was technically my party, but then again, I was only _expected_ on a technicality.

I wasn't in the mood for celebration. Considering how most of the kingdom was crowded on castle grounds tonight, I didn't think anyone would notice my absence entirely.

I wasn't hungry now, anyway, even for the fruit tart and all the pies I'd had a hand in making - proudly, at the time.

Reality-shaking revelations are better than cigarettes for killing your appetite. Cigarettes' taste being known from the peak of my short-lived and very tame rebellious phase, and a habit I'd shaken quickly afterwards once I'd transitioned into my more permanent be-the-mature-one phase.

Suddenly, I felt kind of tired of being the mature one all day every day. I was.

I felt too old for these bones, and I _was_.

And I felt so sick of this _mystery_.

 _And I was._

I hadn't performed my typical pause at the bottom of the stairs to allow Olgert to catch up. Even so, I noted absently that he had fallen in step behind me, somewhere along my very calm and unhurried stroll through the emptied castle.

Shadowing me.

He always did that.

Yes, because it was his job. He was a bodyguard. And butler.

But it was a job given to him by the king. And the queen, but she was being lied to (was she?) like everyone else in this kingdom, and like almost everyone else she _liked_ her lies. She was a victim (was she?) in this, too. But not the king. Was Olgert in on this too? He always shadowed me because that was his job as a bodyguard and butler but what if it was also his job to spy on me. What if he'd already told the king all the questions I'd been asking. I mean, I thought we'd been getting along, maybe even built up an understanding, a quiet rapport, I thought we were learning to trust each other, so no, no, I didn't think he'd do that, at least not without telling me to make it fair, and I wanted to keep believing that but _what if-_

Calm down before you get hysterical. And more paranoid than you already are, living in this hell-forsaken place. Not that paranoia isn't useful, as recent events have _abundantly_ proved.

Hey, good advice, brain.

Thanks, me. I'm here all day. I have nowhere else to get out to, _apparently._

I wanted to laugh a little. I would've, if I wasn't sure I'd hiccup before I laughed.

I was still not funny. At all.

"Sir?" Olgert asked. "Are you feeling alright? That's not… any of the ways to the garden."

… So what, _what if_. Did it even _matter?_ I'd recently discovered so many thing didn't, maybe this was just another one to add to the heap of disillusionment and lemon-sour bitterness. He hadn't been close enough to hear most of the questions except the ones I asked him, and they were never incriminating of a different reality's knowledge. I was still lost in this maze of lies (I was repeating myself but who will really know _in my own brain_ ) and this fancy cage of a castle right where I'd started off, waking up as Rasiel to his brother trying to kill me.

What if, what if, what if. What ifs.

What if I hadn't been so stupid and blinded and just as complacent as I marked everyone around me to be and had put together how _deep_ everything went so much _earlier?_

Well in _that_ case I'd still be just as frustrated and mad and humiliated and angry and furious and stuck, just earlier. _Earlier,_ so I could've _gotten over myself_ and accepted that I was _wrong_ and that I'd just start over fresh with that knowledge and the optimism that I'd do better next time, and anyways accept that I _would_ learn _eventually_ from the king when he felt I was ready so it was just a matter of biding my time even if I _desperately_ _didn't_ want to be patient, because _I was that kind of person in the end, wasn't I? I would always calm down and analyze and accept._

Shut _up,_ _brain_. Let me have this.

Let me have this before I _do_ calm down, like I _always_ do, like I maybe just _don't_ want to do for once so that I can _stay_ erratic and _emotional_ and just _feel_.

"Not-" I inhaled, exhaled.

Yoga breaths.

Be the mature one, for just a bit longer.

Then you can go to your room in a castle of _lies_ and curl up on your comfy bed and pull the canopy closed and pile yourself with pillows and _scream_. Or _cry_. Or punch or flail or hit something that won't break and be regretted in the morning, when everything is so much more calm and rational and your heart isn't thudding with burning betrayal and your mind isn't struggling to keep that lid of shock shut tight over your struggle to _breathe_.

Everything will seem different in the morning, and with any luck, it will also seem better.

"Not now, Olgert. Please," I finished, speeding up my words and my pace both, as I felt the unfamiliar but horrifyingly unforgettable prickle of hot tears threatening to choke up any further sounds.

So illogical.

I'd always hated crying.

It was an uncontrollable reflex of the body when you could learn to control basically everything else: expression, voice, projected intentions.

If I wanted ashamed anger, I wanted it dry and harsh and _burning_.

I wanted it on _my terms_.

My throat tingled. I swallowed, roughly, and half-stumbled half-ran the rest of the stairs.

Inhale, exhale.

"… Rasiel?" Olgert called after me, evidently worried.

 _Not the fuck now, because who the fuck cares._

For the first time since arriving in this place, I wanted to dream, so I could at least know that I was still capable of escaping it all in at least one way.

I didn't.

* * *

 _ **#  
#**_

 _ **#**_

 _ **In which C has just a**_ _ **small**_ _**breakdown, proving that it's hard for even the most controlled people to stay calm and collected (although they managed to keep it up quite well for a while) when months of what they thought of as progress is now being thought of as a complete waste of time and effort.**_ _ **Even when it's not, really**_ _ **. They're not exactly thinking**_ _ **reasonably**_ _ **, though, despite the best efforts of their brain to keep them placated; that's what happens when months of repressed feelings build up and explode all over you, I suppose. And sometimes you just want to be able to lash out in anger even when you're burning with awareness that you shouldn't. (I'll emphasize: C was thinking and acting**_ _ **erratically**_ _ **. They were aware of this, and were also aware that they will eventually calm down and be rational again. In the flush of their tangled emotions, however, they didn't really**_ _ **want**_ _**to calm down and be rational again, although of course they will feel very differently about this when it**_ _ **does**_ _**happen.)**_

 _ **Slater's backstory isn't ever fully revealed (or relevant) in C's narrative, but I might stick something short in the end-of-arc bonus content chapter if anyone wants it. Fun Fact: This is the first time Olgert drops all titles and just calls C 'Rasiel' like C requested, symbolizing their advancement to actual friends, but C didn't notice and won't remember it.**_

 _ **Please review~! Reviews are what feed me and tell me that this story is actually of value to somebody, somewhere, and thus is worth posting. The simplest thing is fine. Just let me what you feel and think? (To my regulars, Sarah and Regulus, thank you so much. I can't describe how much your reliability encourages me.)**_

 _ **.**_

 _[_ _Next Chapter Preview:_ _]_

 _I'd just have to force his hand._


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